


Don't Forget Who's Taking You Home

by mrs_d



Series: International Cooperation [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canadian Shack, Crossover, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Smut, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Fraser is in the Marvelverse technically, M/M, Mission Fic, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Series (due South), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam-Centric, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Steve, and Bucky turn to Fraser for help taking down HYDRA's latest project, codenamed Hermes, in Northern Canada. (Sequel to "Reaching.")</p><p>
  <i>“Unofficially, we’ve been cleaning up HYDRA's remnants ever since SHIELD went down," Steve told Ben. "Plus, new cells have been popping up here and there. We’ve heard some troubling things about something the Canadian branch has been working on called Project Hermes. I don’t suppose that name means anything to you?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“No,” said Ben, but he quickly went on, tugging on his right ear. “Well, I do know that Hermes was the Greek messenger god, the son of Zeus and the Pleiad Maia. It’s said that he wore winged sandals and was the patron god of swineherds, but I don’t see how that would be relevant here.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Yeah, that’s not quite what we meant,” said Steve with a wry smile.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tent

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP with no set end-date, but I am determined to finish it. Sorry it's so slow!!
> 
>  **Please note:** This fic takes place in the same universe as "Reaching," in which Ray Kowalski is dead; however, for reasons that I cannot explore at this juncture, I did not mark this fic as "Major Character Death." If you want to know more (and you are not afraid of spoilers), [contact me on Tumblr](http://mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com/) and I'll explain this choice.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me.

Sam was dreaming his usual dream.

He was flying the night mission with Riley. Soon the RPG would rush up on them, and Sam would twist left instead of right, the way he should have gone, to take it in Riley’s place. Then Sam would be the one falling, but that was okay because Riley wouldn’t freeze up and compromise the op. Riley would get the job done and save those people instead of hanging in the air, watching his wingman burn.

But the RPG didn’t come. Sam spun around to look, wondering what was taking so long. Behind him, the dark landscape seemed to fade into white, which had never happened before.

When he turned back, Sam realized that he wasn’t flying anymore; he was suspended on the side of a mountain beside someone — _not Riley,_ Sam thought vaguely. He had just enough time to wonder who this person was when suddenly, Sam was falling.

He had a flash of relief — falling was familiar — before the terror set in. Sam fell until the mountain was little more than a blur against a watery grey sky, until his back hit something sharp, and, with a shuddering gasp, he burst out of the nightmare.

* * *

The ground was still hard beneath him when Sam opened his eyes, and for a second he didn’t know where he was. Vertigo was swooping through his gut; Sam focused on breathing, reminding himself that he was safe, that he was on the ground, that he was in Canada, that he wasn’t alone — not really. It was just a dream, the same dream he’d been having for years, except for the mountain detail. That aspect had started showing up the last three nights, and Sam didn’t like it.

Once he’d settled himself down a bit, he shifted in the sleeping bag — technically, it was a few sleeping bags zipped together — which felt big and empty without its other two occupants. Sam started to turn, to roll over and try to get back to sleep, but pain suddenly zinged across his left deltoid. He hissed and touched the wound, then let out a sigh of relief when he found the bandage still dry under his sleeve.

He stared up at the peaked ceiling of the tent, listening to Steve and Bucky’s low voices outside. Neither of them liked sleeping in the cold — for obvious reasons — so they had gotten up and out of the tent long before Sam had every morning that they’d been out here. He worried about them not getting enough rest, but he knew better than to try and get them to talk about it yet.

All he could do was count the days. Two bases down, one to go, and they could wrap up their ugly business of taking down HYDRA’s latest initiative, codenamed Project Hermes, which sounded nasty, and, given the number of HYDRA agents willing to die for it, seemed crucial to HYDRA’s operations in Northern Canada. Once they shut it down, Sam, Steve, and Bucky would be able to get back to civilization, where Sam didn’t have to see that pinched look in his guys’ faces when the wind picked up and the ice creaked.

Two bases down, one to go, he told himself again as Steve entered the tent, hunched over and looking too big to be allowed in the small space.

“Sam?” he called hesitantly. “You awake?”

“Depends,” Sam replied, his voice still foggy with sleep. He cleared his throat. “Is there breakfast?”

Steve grinned. “Yeah, Bucky’s cooking right now. Hope you’re not sick of rabbit stew.”

He shuffled toward Sam and kissed him, gently, warmly. Sam worried about his morning breath, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. His morning kisses were always sweet and slow, like he could spend the whole day doing nothing else.

“Hi,” Sam breathed against his lips when they parted. He felt significantly more awake now.

“Good morning,” Steve said, leaning back and looking slightly smug. “Sleep okay?”

Sam shrugged with his good shoulder.

“Dreams?”

“Always,” Sam replied. “You?”

“Few hours. How’s the arm?”

Sam decided to let the topic drop. He didn’t want to talk nightmares with Steve, not when he knew there was nowhere for Steve to get away from them out here, so pulled his arm out of the sleeping bag instead.

“It’s better, I think,” Sam said, as Steve helped him work it out of the sleeve. “Itchy, sore — ow,” he added pointedly when Steve prodded at the bandage. “What did I just say?”

“Sorry,” Steve replied, wincing as he removed the gauze. The wound was definitely smaller than it had been; the stitches were starting to seem too big. “It looks better, but we should still clean it and change the dressing before we head out.”

Sam nodded. Steve kissed the top of his shoulder suddenly — the brush of his soft beard sent a ripple through Sam’s body — then pulled him easily to his feet. He went back outside while Sam dressed.

Since the bullet had grazed him three days ago, he’d gotten good at this routine. He left the top of his thermal underwear unbuttoned, so they could access the wound, and wrapped the shirt he was planning to wear around his torso and right arm to keep warm. He sat back down on the sleeping bag as Steve re-entered the tent, carefully carrying a pot.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”

Sam settled back on the bedroll and Steve crouched on his left, wringing warm water from a cloth that steamed slightly in the cool air. It was a strangely intimate moment; Sam listened to Steve breathe as he wiped the area down, watched his bottom lip become redder and redder as he worried it with his teeth.

“Stitches will have to be redone tonight, but they’re holding for now,” Steve murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. He wished they’d been done better, and with dissolving thread, to save them the hassle of removing them in a week, but that hadn’t been possible behind enemy lines. “Doc Barnes did good.”

“Told you,” came Bucky’s voice suddenly.

The tender atmosphere vanished all at once as the cloth slipped from between Steve’s fingers and splashed back into the pot. Sam twisted around while Steve mumbled curse words.

In the corner sat Bucky, smirking. Sam hadn’t even heard the tent fabric rustle.

“We ought to get you a bell,” he muttered once he’d caught his breath. “How long have you been there?”

“Can’t tell you that, takes the fun out of it. Good morning, by the way.”

Bucky crawled forward and kissed Sam. His mouth was rougher than Steve’s, his patchy beard scraping the outside of Sam’s lips, but no less welcome. He tasted like campfire coffee and the one cigarette he smoked every morning that Sam pretended he knew nothing about.

“Morning, you sneaky bastard,” Sam said, brushing Bucky’s hair back behind his ears.

He winked and kissed Sam once more, then leaned in front of him, so he could see what Steve was doing. “Arm looks good,” he commented.

“You did a nice job,” Steve agreed. He finished drying Sam’s arm with a fresh cloth and started unwrapping a new gauze patch.

“Well, I learned from the best,” Bucky replied.

“Yeah? The Howlies have a good medic?” asked Sam.

“No,” said Bucky absently. “Well, yeah. But I meant Steve’s ma.”

Steve stopped, his fingers pressing the gauze into Sam’s arm, and stared. “Mom taught you?”

“Yeah, when we were kids. I thought you knew,” said Bucky.

Steve shook his head mutely as Bucky reached across to finish applying the bandage. His metal arm, bundled up tightly so Bucky could touch things without freezing them, was steady against Sam’s lower back.

“It’s like she knew you’d be getting in fights for the rest of your lives or something,” Sam joked.

Steve smiled. “She always did claim she had the Sight.”

“That’s nothing but superstition, Stevie,” Bucky said dismissively as he helped Sam shrug into his shirt and parka. “She just knew what kind of kid she brought into the world. Don’t need the Sight for that.”

Steve huffed out a small laugh and leaned in, gave Bucky the same kind of kiss he’d just given Sam. Bucky’s hand fisted in the back of Sam’s coat, and Steve brushed his fingers up along the bare skin of Sam’s neck.

When Steve turned his head to kiss Sam in turn, Sam could taste Bucky on his lips. He shivered — it had nothing to do with the cold — and reached for Bucky, but he wasn’t there. Sam opened his eyes to see that he’d pulled back and was smirking at them again.

“Food’s getting cold,” he stated, his eyes dancing with laughter.

“Oh. Right,” said Steve, sounding dazed.

He made to stand, but Bucky reached out, grabbed his wrist. “I didn’t mean you had to stop,” he protested. “It was just an observation.”

“Oh,” Steve said again.

He and Bucky turned their eyes on Sam, and Sam’s mouth went dry. No matter how many times they did this, it never stopped being a little overwhelming to see them both looking at him with that much affection and, frankly, lust.

“Sure,” he managed to say. “But remember: I got one arm out of commission.”

Steve glanced at Bucky, who shrugged.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Steve said, and the three of them got back in the sleeping bag, which didn’t feel empty or cold anymore.


	2. Travel

“Won’t be more than a few hours till we get to Ben’s place,” Steve had said some time later, but a few hours passed, and they were still on the road — not that Sam would call the snowy tundra a road, exactly.

At least there were a few trees to look at now. The closer they got to the border of the Northwest Territories, the more woodsy the scenery became. Steve said it had something to do with the treeline, but Sam wasn't quite sure what that meant; geography was one class he skipped a lot in high school.

Bucky kept the dogs going slow, keeping pace with Steve, who was skiing alongside the sled. Slow was safer, given that it was still autumn, and they’d been warned by many helpful Canadians to watch out for rotten, half-frozen ice. Canadians, Sam had learned, were nothing if not helpful — unless they were working for HYDRA.

Sam shuddered. He didn’t want to think about that. Blood — even Nazi blood — felt too thick on his hands sometimes.

“You know, I’m starting to think this old friend thing is a ruse,” Bucky said suddenly, quietly enough that Sam doubted Steve would hear him over the rattle of the dog harness.

Sam was glad of the distraction, and not just because his mind was going to unpleasant places. His legs were starting to cramp up, his ass was numb in the lumpy seat, and his arm throbbed with every jostle of the sled. He much preferred driving to riding, but with his injury, Bucky wouldn’t let him anywhere near the reins.

“You think he’s making it up?” he asked, tilting his head to talk to Bucky over his shoulder. “Maybe he’s just trying to keep us from freaking out once we realize we’re lost, and we’re going to freeze to death in the middle of nowhere.”

“Sounds logical,” replied Bucky with a chuckle.

Steve stopped suddenly, and, when Bucky brought the dogs to a halt a few feet past him, he skied up and raised his goggles.

“We’re not lost,” he said firmly. “Give me the map, Buck. I’ll prove it.”

Sam extracted himself from the sled, so Bucky and Steve could rummage around in the packs. He stretched his right arm and rolled his neck, trying to work out the kinks.

“Here,” said Buck suddenly, handing Sam a piece of pemmican and two aspirin.

“Thanks, man,” Sam replied, touched.

He lowered his scarf to swallow the pills before taking a bite of the dried meat — funny how it was actually starting to taste good by now. Meanwhile, Steve pored over the map and checked his compass. Bucky joined him, and Sam smiled at the picture they made; aside from the messy beards and Arctic gear, he could have been looking at the old film strips that used to play at the Smithsonian. 

“Aha,” Steve said triumphantly, pointing to a spot on the map. “See? I told you. We’re almost there. Ten more miles North-North-West.”

“Lovely,” Bucky answered flatly. “Now do me a favour and eat something while we’re stopped.”

“I’m okay,” Steve protested, but when Sam and Bucky both frowned at him, he relented and reached for a handful of dried meat, muttering about how it was always two on one.

Bucky, chewing his own piece of pemmican, sent Sam a sidelong glance, then waggled his brows at Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored him. “Sam, call Nat once we get moving again, give her an update. See if she and Maria have made any progress with those encrypted files we sent.”

“Sure thing,” Sam replied, and they packed up again.

“Wilson,” Natasha greeted him. Her voice was crystal clear — it was amazing the kind of reception Stark’s satellite phones could get, even up in the frozen North. “It’s been three days; you don’t call, you don’t write. I’m starting to think you only love me for my intel.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sam purred, matching her tone. “We love you for more than that.”

“Aw, you’re too sweet. I can see why the ice men dig you.” Natasha turned serious all at once. “How are they doing?”

Sam glanced over his shoulder, but he couldn’t tell if Bucky was listening in or not. His face was covered with a scarf and hood while his eyes, behind their goggles, seemed distant, focused on the horizon.

“Oh, you know,” Sam began, keeping his tone casual.

“Not sleeping?”

“Only a little. Not that I’m one to talk,” he added.

“Why? Something happen?”

“Got myself a little bit shot,” he admitted.

“Okay,” said Natasha steadily. “Obviously you’re all right, though?”

“Yeah. Just a graze. Twelve stitches, left shoulder.”

“Tell me about it?”

Sam knew an order when he heard it, even though technically he didn’t answer to Natasha. He adjusted his scarf, so he could cradle the phone against his neck inside it, keeping his face warm and giving them a little privacy.

“Some kind of alarm went off,” he began. “When Bucky hit the perimeter guards. That’s never happened before.”

“Heart monitors, maybe,” Natasha mused. “They’ve upped their game. Must have known you were coming.”

“How?”

“I guess word travels fast. So it became a full-on assault?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “It went sideways pretty damn quick.”

He could remember it all so clearly: the waves of black-clad HYDRA agents, Steve a blue blur among them, his shield knocking down enemies like bowling pins. Bucky’s bullets created neat little holes while Sam hung back, providing covering fire, flying up to the ceiling when he needed a better angle.

He’d gone ahead on Steve’s orders to scout the second floor, and that’s where he got into trouble. He took out the three agents in the stairwell just fine, but then—

“Did you find the lab?” Natasha asked.

“Yeah, I was just getting to that. Dr. Brawn was there, like you said. He’s the one that shot me.”

“How? Everything I’ve got says he’s a non-combatant.”

Sam hesitated. He’d gone over the incident practically every waking minute since it happened, and he still didn’t have a good explanation.

“Wilson, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just....” Sam kept his voice low in case Bucky or Steve were listening closely. “The fact of the matter is I don’t really know how. I found Brawn’s lab, and when I went in, I — something weird happened,” he finished lamely.

“Think you could elaborate?” asked Natasha, the teasing note almost back in her voice.

Sam closed his eyes, tried to put himself back in that moment. “There was... an energy.”

“Weaponized?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Sam said quickly. “More like — you know that feeling when you’re being watched? It was like that, times a hundred.”

“Hm,” said Natasha.

“I thought there was somebody else in the room,” Sam went on. He opened his eyes. “It distracted me, threw me off just long enough for Brawn to pull out his gun.”

“Hm,” said Natasha again. “Lucky for you he’s a bad shot. Do the guys know?”

“No,” Sam said firmly. “They’ve got enough on their minds.”

“Fair enough,” Natasha replied, and, bless her, she changed the topic. “I assume you didn’t take Brawn alive.”

Sam didn’t reply. He cast his eyes around, trying to get away from the memory of how not alive Brawn had been when they left, but, aside from the trees, the scenery was mostly matte grey, making it hard not to picture the blood that had spread slowly across the lab’s tile floor.

“Interrogation give you anything useful at least?” Natasha asked after a moment.

“Not much. He told us some things we already knew — Hermes is HYDRA’s secret weapon, going to take over the world, blah, blah, blah.” Sam shook his head. “About the only thing that we didn’t already know was that it’s related to Insight. Guy mentioned Zola by name, asked us if we really thought that Insight was the only algorithm he’d come up with.”

“Well. That’s alarming.”

Sam had to remind himself not to take Natasha’s nonchalance at face value. “You’re telling me.” 

“He say anything else?”

Sam shook his head again. “HYDRA would rule the world; its secrets would die with him.”

“Damn. Cyanide?”

“I wish,” Sam sighed. “He tricked Steve into leaning closer. Went for Steve’s pistol, and Bucky got him in the head. Blood everywhere. All over Steve.”

“Oh.” Natasha paused for what felt like a long time. “Is he okay?”

Sam looked over, watched the steady motion of Steve’s limbs working the skis and poles. “He hasn’t talked about it,” he replied softly.

“Okay,” Natasha said. She didn’t sound surprised. “Well, tell him Maria and I are making progress on the files. It’s slow going, but we’ll crack it. You need to get somewhere with a hardline, so we can send it to you once we’re done. Now, there’s an old SHIELD safe house not far—”

“We’re already en route,” Sam said. “Steve’s got the coordinates.”

“What? That’s not possible. Nobody knows about this place.”

Sam frowned. “You mean, Ben’s not with you guys?”

“Who the hell is Ben?”

Sam briefly explained how Steve had been chatting with one of HYDRA’s captives the other night, a bear of an old man who called himself Delmar, and discovered they had a friend in common.

“Steve doesn’t have any friends,” Natasha interrupted.

“Excuse me?” said Sam, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Canadian friends,” she clarified snippily. “SHIELD had a list of his associates. It’s a short list, Sam, and there’s nobody named Ben on it.”

“Well, that’s where we’re going,” Sam protested, confused. “Delmar drew us a map. Made notes and everything. Guy’s spelling is like a fourth grader’s, but—”

“I don’t like this. Keep an eye on him.”

“Who, Delmar? We let him go home.”

“Not—” Natasha exhaled loudly into the phone. “Steve, Sam. Keep an eye on Steve.”

Sam felt a burst of irritation. “What do you think I’ve been doing up here, Romanov? Counting polar bears?”

“Let me talk to Barnes.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Sorry,” he muttered.

“We’re good, Wilson,” she replied.  

“No, I shouldn’t have snapped—”

“You’re tired, I’m tired, everybody’s bitchy. Don’t worry about it. Now: Barnes?”

He pulled the phone out of his scarf and held it up, waving it in the general direction of Bucky’s face. It was lifted from his hand a second later.

“ _Da?_ ”

What followed was a rapid and intense conversation in Russian behind Sam’s head. When Bucky handed back the phone five minutes later, it was off, so Sam tucked it into the folds of his parka.

“What was that about?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Oh, the usual paranoia. She also gave me shit for letting you get shot. Threatened evisceration if it happened again.”

“Huh. Didn’t realize she was so fond of me.”

Bucky sighed, put-upon, and patted Sam’s good shoulder. “Don’t you know by now you’re everybody’s favourite? Get some rest. It’ll be a little while yet, and I know you’ve been sleeping about as good as I have lately.”

Sam nodded but didn’t reply. He _was_ exhausted, now that the aspirin was keeping the pain in his arm from distracting him. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts fade away, let himself be lulled to sleep by the motion of the sled and the steady jingle of the dog harness.


	3. Ben

Sam was in a small white room — it was Dr. Brawn’s lab at the HYDRA base, though Sam hadn’t seen it from this angle before. The door to the hall was on his right, Dr. Brawn’s desk to his left. Brawn was standing in front of it, shoving a laptop into its leather case, talking in a low frantic tone.

“—Captain America,” he was saying. “You must warn the other bases. Repeat: we are under attack by—”

Footsteps thundered up a set of stairs nearby, stopping outside the lab door. There was a beat of silence before the door burst inwards, and Sam found that he was looking at himself.

It was disorienting — where was he if he wasn’t in his body? — but he didn’t have time to think about it. The other Sam, the one who’d just come through the door, was pointing his double barrels at Brawn, then looking away and scanning the room.

 _You can see me_ , Sam said silently, and the other Sam’s eyes narrowed at him in confusion. _You’re my link_.

With a loud crack, blood burst from the other Sam’s shoulder. An instant later, Bucky rushed in and fired twice at the doctor. One shot knocked the gun from his hand, the other took out a kneecap, and Bucky dropped his weapon before his target even hit the floor. He knelt by Sam, applying pressure to the wound.

 _You’re my link to Captain America_ , Sam said, staring into his own pain-clouded eyes from across the room. _Tell him—_

“Sam,” came Bucky’s voice suddenly. “Wake up, birdie, we’re here.”

“You have to tell him,” Sam mumbled as he opened his eyes to see Bucky crouched down next to the sled, his face bare, looking at him closely.

“Tell who? And what?” Bucky asked.

“Captain America,” Sam replied. It seemed like the only logical answer.

Bucky raised his eyebrows, then gave him a small smile.

“Wait,” said Sam a moment later. “What am I talking about?”

Bucky laughed and squeezed Sam’s uninjured shoulder as he got to his feet. “Damned if I know. Good nap, huh?”

“I guess so.”

Sam pulled down his scarf to scratch at his beard and look around.  Steve was a few paces away, removing his skis. Bucky had parked the dogs beside a long, low shed — a kennel, probably, since Sam could hear barking — and there were plowed pathways leading from it to a garage with a large red door, and to a log cabin that looked downright homey. Behind it, he could see another path leading into a copse of dark trees.

“Where are we?” Sam asked. He climbed out of the sled and wobbled suddenly — his legs were still mostly asleep.

Bucky caught him with a chuckle and gestured toward the house. “Ben’s place, apparently. Come on.”

They set off after Steve, and Sam had to laugh a moment later when a huge shaggy dog came bounding out of the shed and pounced on Steve — he probably would have fallen over were it not for his super soldier strength and reflexes. By the time Bucky and Sam caught up to him, the dog had its front paws on Steve’s shoulders, and Steve was rubbing its ears affectionately.

“Trudeau!” a voice shouted, and a man rounded the corner of the cabin.

The dog didn’t react to the call — he was too focused on nosing into Steve’s hood — and he hopped down only when the man reached them.

The man was nearly as tall as Steve but stockier — though that may have been his parka. He had a red scarf protecting his neck and, at the edge of his fur-trimmed hood, he had thick dark hair that had gone silver at his temples. Sam judged him to be about 50 years old, with laugh lines etched around his eyes and mouth.

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” the man said. “Trudeau’s very well-trained, but he’s awfully stubborn. I daresay...”

The man trailed off as Steve lowered his scarf and lifted his goggles.

“...Steve?”

“Hi, Ben,” Steve said softly.

He touched the man’s bare cheek, running his thumb over the dark stubble. The man leaned forward, like he was draw by a magnet, and pressed his lips against Steve’s. Steve started a little in surprise, but he returned the kiss for a moment before he stepped back, keeping his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Um,” said Sam under his breath. He looked to Bucky, but Bucky’s face was blank.

“What are you doing here?” the man — Ben, apparently — asked, his mittened hands running up and down Steve’s arms like he wasn’t sure Steve was real.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Steve replied.

Ben’s sudden grin made him seem years younger. “What’s Captain America doing in Canada?”

“International cooperation,” said Steve in his teasing voice, and he gave the man another kiss, as chaste and brief as a handshake.

Bucky cleared his throat. Steve turned at the noise, and Ben — well, Sam never would have guessed that someone other than Steve could turn that red that fast.

“This is Benton Fraser, with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Steve began.

“Retired,” Ben corrected.

“Retired,” Steve repeated with a smile. “Ben, I’d like you to meet my partners, Sam Wilson and—”

“James Barnes,” Bucky interrupted.

Ben’s eyes widened, and he looked to Steve.

“Long story,” Steve muttered.

“I’ll say. So how in the hell do you two know each other?” Bucky asked aggressively.

He yanked the mitten off his left hand and extended it. Sam and Steve exchanged a mildly exasperated look; this was Bucky’s favorite way of testing people who recognized him in public.

But Ben didn’t hesitate, didn’t break eye contact as he took Bucky’s hand and shook it. “We met in Washington,” he explained. “Three years ago, was it, Steve?”

“Nearly four,” Steve confirmed.

“And I told Steve that if he ever found himself in Nunavut, he should come by. Of course, I didn’t actually expect—”

“Yeah, you and me both, pal,” Bucky interrupted, pulling back and putting his mitt on again. “I hate the cold. You seriously live here?”

“All my life.” Ben turned. “Sam, was it?”

As Sam shook Ben’s hand, he was hit with a sharp sense of déjà vu. “Haven’t we met already?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Ben squinted at him. “I don’t believe so. Unless — are you a SHIELD agent?”

“No.”

“How do you know about—?” Bucky started to ask, but Ben kept talking.

“Have you ever been to Ottawa?”

“No.”

“Chicago?”

“Yes,” Sam declared with a wave of recognition that felt almost joyful.

“I lived there for a number of years. Are you familiar with—”

“Wait,” said Sam, confused again. “No. Sorry. I’ve never been to Chicago.”

Ben looked at Steve, bewildered, and Sam noticed that Bucky was watching him closely, frowning.

“Sam?” asked Steve. “Are you all right?”

Bucky laughed suddenly, loudly. He slung an arm around Sam’s waist and pulled him close. “He’s fine. Just a little spacey. You should have heard him talking in his sleep a minute ago. Said he needed me to tell Captain America something very important.”

Steve raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Which I now don’t remember at all,” Sam mumbled, pretending to be embarrassed while trying to figure out why Bucky was covering up his strange outburst.  

“Sam’s recovering from a bullet wound,” Steve told Ben. “Maybe he could go inside and lie down?”

“Of course,” Ben replied. He led them the rest of the way to the cabin. “Please, make yourselves at home. I’ll just, uh, help Steve. With the dogs,” he added hastily, and he turned away.

Sam forced a chuckle as the door swung shut. “Funny guy,” he muttered.

“That’s one word for it,” Bucky agreed. He removed his coat and the extra layer of fabric that wrapped his left arm. He rotated his wrist and flexed his fingers, testing their range of motion and warming them up. The whir of the servo motors almost drowned him out when he asked, “You want to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Sam?”

Sam worked to keep his face blank as he shrugged his good shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Bucky looked up, leveled his gaze at him. “Can’t fool a head case, doll.”

“You are not a head case,” Sam replied firmly. “And I’m fine. It was just a little déjà vu or something.”

He tried to walk away, but Bucky stopped him with a hand on his chest. “I know what it looks like when you go somewhere else. What it feels like.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Sam reassured him, softly squeezing the cool metal and running his hand up Bucky’s wrist. “Really, man. I’m all right. I’m just tired. We all are.”

“It’s the cold,” Bucky muttered, pulling back suddenly. “Wears you out.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. They’d go with that. It would be a hell of a lot easier than trying to explain the weirdness that he’d been dealing with the last few days. “Come on,” he added. “Let’s sit by the fire and warm up.”

Bucky didn’t look overly pleased at the notion, but when Sam reached out, he didn’t pull back. Sam gave his arm a gentle tug; Bucky went with him to the beige sofa that separated the foyer from the living room. He slid down on Sam’s right and twisted to face him with serious eyes.

“Talk to me, birdie,” he said, his voice soft but determined.

“Since when are you my therapist?” Sam quipped half-heartedly, and he regretted it right away because Bucky’s face closed into that stubborn look that Sam would swear he learned from Steve — or maybe Steve learned it from him a long time ago. Either way, Sam knew Bucky wasn’t going to back down.

Sam opened his mouth, then hesitated. He didn’t want to have this conversation with Bucky now any more than he’d wanted to have it that morning with Steve. True, the three of them shared one another’s baggage; it had been like that since the beginning, when Steve first opened up to him at the VA. But Sam still thought of himself as the least traumatized one in their relationship, so he had a hard time laying a burden at their feet. Especially when he knew that Steve couldn’t get away from his nightmares out here, and that, under the jokes about hating the weather and freezing to death, Bucky was terrified that he’d fall asleep in the cold and wake up not knowing who he was.

What Sam needed was a distraction, a way to get Bucky to stop looking at him like that.

“I’ve been having some weird dreams lately. They’ve been messing with my head a little,” he conceded. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle. What happened out there, that had more to do with that kiss.”

Bucky seemed to deflate before him. Sam had seen that coming; he’d figured that Bucky’s aggressive humor outside had been a posture.

“Steve didn’t tell you about him, either, did he?” Sam guessed.  

Bucky turned to face the fire. “No,” he replied quietly. “Are you jealous?”

“A little,” Sam admitted.

“Me, too,” Bucky said. “Maybe a little more than a little.”

Sam breathed an internal sigh of relief that Bucky was following him into these muddy waters rather than pursuing Sam’s own issues. His stomach churned a bit with guilt for doing this to him, but, really, the conversation was probably inevitable, anyway.

In the firelight, Bucky looked vulnerable, but also strangely aged, the flickering light casting deep shadows under his eyes. He stared into the fire, his mouth working like he was testing out words and didn’t like the taste of any of them.

“It’s okay to feel jealous,” Sam reassured him, slipping back into the familiar role of being the comforter. “Everybody gets jealous sometimes.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell us?” Bucky asked after a moment. “That they used to fuck. Because they obviously did.”

“Hm,” said Sam in agreement. “Is it the sex that’s bothering you, or is it the fact that Steve might still care about him?”

Bucky made a face like something tasted sour on his tongue. “Not sure.”

“Well, Steve’s always loved more than one person,” Sam began tentatively. He thought back to the conversations they had had before Bucky returned. “I think he has to. You know that.”

Bucky snorted softly. “’Course I know that. Peggy didn’t much care for me, but she was one hell of a woman for sharing him with me.”

Sam nodded, trying to hide his surprise. Steve had told him a while ago about his and Bucky’s and Peggy’s arrangement, but Bucky himself had never mentioned it.

“And you,” Bucky added suddenly. “We both share you.”

“And him. And you,” Sam finished. “Is it a problem? Are you tired of sharing?”

“Not with you two.”

“But with someone else—”

“A stranger. I don’t know if we can trust him,” Bucky interjected, then he shook his head. “God, now I sound like Romanov.”

Sam chuckled. “No, you don’t. You’d have to threaten to kill him with your pinky finger or crush his head between your thighs to sound like Romanov.”

Bucky smiled, but it faded fast. Keeping his eyes on the fire, he went on in a low voice.

“Look, I don’t know about you, but for me, you’re it. Both of you. But, see...” Bucky leaned forward, dangling his hands between his knees. “If he can love you and me at the same time, and you can, and I can, what’s to stop him—” he breathed out a small sigh, “or you, or me, even, from getting somebody new?”

Sam pursed his lips. Those were the most words he’d ever heard Bucky speak at one time, and he had no idea how to reply. Sam had shared Riley, sure, and Riley had shared him with a couple guys and even a girl once, but this bond between Sam and Steve and Bucky — it felt like forever, even though it had only begun in earnest six months ago. It felt like the three of them against the world, and they were it for Sam, too. He knew it.

“Well,” Sam began, but before he could go on, the door opened and closed behind them.

Bucky jumped to his feet, and Sam whipped his head around to find Ben and Steve standing in the foyer, the grey dog at their feet. Ben’s eyes were on the fire, while Steve was looking steadily at Bucky.

“Hi,” Steve said. There seemed to be a lot riding on that one syllable.  

Ben took a breath and glanced up. “Sam. James. I owe you an apology for my behavior outside.”

Sam nodded. Bucky didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” Steve added quietly. “I should have told you. Both of you.”

“It’s okay,” Sam replied.

Steve’s eyes found his. “Not really. You deserved to know. Even though it was over before I met you, and before Buck—”

“Stevie,” Bucky breathed, halting Steve’s awkward flow of words. “Can we—?” He turned to Sam, somewhat desperately, then back to Steve. He cocked his head in the direction of the door. “The two of us—?”

“Yeah,” Steve said right away.

Sam gave Bucky’s left hand a little squeeze before he walked away, heading straight to the coat closet. Steve sent Sam a look that asked if he’d be okay on his own for a while. Sam nodded, and Steve followed Bucky outside.


	4. Show Time

Ben seemed to stop holding his breath once the door closed behind Steve and Bucky.

“Oh, dear,” he muttered. He began to remove his outerwear, while the dog headed straight to the rug in front of the fire.

“They do that sometimes,” Sam reassured him. “They’ll be all right.”

“They seem rather intense,” Ben remarked.

Sam smiled, and Ben visibly relaxed a little. “You’re not wrong. But we’ll work it out.”

“‘Though one may be overpowered, two will withstand, and a cord of three strands is not easily broken,’” Ben said as he hung up his coat and placed his boots on the rack.

Sam blinked. “Huh?”

“Ecclesiastes. Chapter four, verse twelve,” Ben replied.

“Of course,” Sam mumbled, like that explained everything.  

“Steve told me your stitches have to be resewn,” Ben said, stepping into the living room. “I can do that for you now if you’d like.”

Sam nodded, relieved at the change of subject, and got to his feet. “Sure. Thanks, man.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. Happy to help.”

Sam followed Ben around the stairs that divided the cabin’s interior and into the bright, spacious kitchen.

“In fact,” Ben said over his shoulder, “I rather think I owe you, given the, uh, circumstances.”

The back of Ben’s neck was beet red as he pulled a small pot down from the cupboard, filled it with water, and set it on the rear burner of the stove.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Sam replied. “Everybody’s got exes.”

“Well, that’s not—” Ben whirled around suddenly and smoothed his eyebrow with his thumbnail. “Never mind.”

It was an unusual nervous tic, Sam thought. He was about to ask for an explanation, but Ben turned and headed across the kitchen into the bathroom and emerged a second later with a first aid kit. He motioned for Sam to sit down at the square wooden table, then began digging through the freezer until he found a huge container of something that looked like soup. Sam watched him, bemused.

“Caribou stew,” Ben explained when he caught Sam looking. He set the container in the sink. “One of the village elders — she’s a lovely woman — she makes it for me because I— well, that’s another story. Suffice to say, I think she likes to see me eat.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. I told her it was too much food for me, but she insisted. I believe her exact words were, _Save it for when you have company, Benton_.”

“So, is she psychic or just smart?” Sam joked, and he noticed Ben exhale with relief.

“I’m not sure that would be how she’d term it, but she is a spiritual leader, as well as a physician,” Ben said, running water over the dish in the sink. “Dr. Yumoni was very fond of my late partner, you see. She taught him to cook when he first moved here. And, since I returned to the North, I think she worries about me being alone. Without Ray.”

Sam nodded. He’d wondered about the blonde man in the photographs on the mantle.

Ben dropped a pair of scissors into the pot on the stove, which had begun to bubble, while Sam unbuttoned his flannel shirt and the top of his thermal underwear, so he could pull his arm out of the sleeve. Ben pulled a chair up next to him and helped, holding the fabric away from Sam’s shoulder so it wouldn’t catch on the gauze.

Sam flinched when Ben touched his skin. “Damn, your hands are cold.”

“Sorry. I suppose you’re used to—” Ben stopped abruptly.

“Yeah, they run a little hot,” Sam said quickly to cover the sudden awkward silence. “So, you were living in Chicago?” he asked in an almost-normal tone.

“No. Not recently,” Ben replied. “After Ray died, I took a transfer to Ottawa for a time and worked in a ceremonial capacity, travelling with the Prime Minister across the continent.” He smiled a little. “That’s how I met Steve, a few months after the Battle of New York. He was being awarded a medal in Washington.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sam said with a slight laugh. “So, how long were you together?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

Ben turned beet red again and got up, heading to the stove. “One night,” he replied with his back turned.

Sam felt his jaw drop open, and he closed it with a snap. After a moment, he said, “Oh. I see.”

He did see: why Steve was so clumsy about explaining, why Ben was so embarrassed — he was avoiding Sam’s eyes as he arranged a folded cloth on the table and set the pot down. But what Sam didn’t see was how Ben could still want to welcome Steve into his home, kiss Steve on the mouth, give Steve and his boyfriends a place to stay.

“You two must have really connected, huh?” he said. He wanted it to sound like a joke, but it came out more as a straightforward observation.  

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Ben replied, looking up to meet Sam’s eyes at last. “I’d lost my partner, and Steve had lost...”

Bucky, Sam thought. And Peggy. And his whole world. “Everything,” he finished softly. “So you comforted each other.”

Ben nodded quickly, giving Sam a small, tight smile. He sat down and reached for the gauze on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam grabbed his wrist. Ben stared at him, a little alarmed, and Sam gentled his grip.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Ben shook his head. “You don’t have to—”

“I am, though,” Sam went on. “I’m sorry you lost your partner. I’m sorry we dropped in on you out of the blue and brought all this up again. But I’m not sorry you and Steve have a history.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” Sam let go of Ben’s wrist and, since he was so close to him, he took a chance and brushed his thumb against Ben’s cheek the way Steve had when they were outside. “He needed you. You needed him. I’m glad you were able to be there for each other. Probably helped both of you move on a little.”

Ben looked down, blinking rapidly. “It did,” he said quietly.

“Good.” Sam lowered his hand and took a deep breath. “Now patch me up, will you?”

Ben smiled at him and got to work.

* * *

The caribou stew was bubbling on the stove, filling the kitchen with its savory aroma, and Sam was cutting thick slices of homemade bread when Steve and Bucky returned. Steve took over stirring while Ben set the table, but Bucky just sidled up to Sam, smelling like he’d broken his one-cigarette-per-day rule.

“What do you want?” Sam asked him playfully, pitching his voice so the others wouldn’t hear.

Bucky winked and slipped his metal fingers around the knife to pinch a corner off one slice of bread and pop it into his mouth. Sam glared, but that only led Bucky to pinch another piece and feed it to Sam. His thumb lingered on Sam’s lips for just a second too long, and then he turned away, heading over to take a seat at the table.

* * *

After they’d eaten, Steve pushed his empty bowl to the side and leaned forward. _Show time,_ thought Sam. He straightened his posture, and he noticed Bucky doing the same thing on the other side of the table.

“Are you sure it’s okay if we stay here?” Steve asked Ben directly.

“Of course,” Ben replied without hesitation. “You’re welcome for as long as you like.”

“Thank you,” Steve said earnestly. “It shouldn’t be more than a couple days. We’re waiting on intel,” he explained. 

“You got internet?” Bucky asked Ben brusquely.

“Yes, you’re welcome to—”

“Secure?”

“I think so,” said Ben, but he sounded flustered and uncertain.

“If it’s not, Natasha can walk me through setting up an encryption,” Sam assured Bucky. He turned to his left and looked Ben in the eye, hoping to ease his concerns, too. “I can even do that ahead of time, while we’re waiting.”

“Good, then. That’s settled.” Bucky nodded sharply and looked to Steve to continue.

Steve took a deep breath. “Look,” he said to Ben. “I know we’re already asking a lot, imposing on you like this, and I’ve no right to ask you to do more. But we could use your help.”

“I’d be honored,” said Ben, and Sam heard an echo of himself telling Steve that there was no better reason to get back in.

“You might not think so once you hear what I have to say,” Steve said, his voice firm and very Captain America. “Our mission’s highly classified. It could be dangerous for you to get involved. I won’t hold it against you if you decide it’s not worth the risk.”

Ben was silent for a moment. He assessed Sam and Bucky in turn before his eyes returned to Steve. “It’s worth it.”

Steve nodded and leaned back a little, his palms on the table’s edge. “Okay. First thing you need to know is we’re going after HYDRA,” he declared. “I assume you know what that is?”

“Of course,” Ben replied. “Though I thought they were finished after that business in Washington last year.”

Across the table from Sam, Bucky didn’t flinch, exactly, but his mouth twitched like he might have wanted to; Washington was still a sensitive topic. Sam stretched his leg out and brushed Bucky’s ankle with his foot, and he was rewarded with a small, swift smile.

“Officially, you’re right,” Steve was saying to Ben. “Unofficially, we’ve been cleaning up their remnants ever since SHIELD went down. Plus, new cells have been popping up here and there. We’ve heard some troubling things about something the Canadian branch has been working on called Project Hermes. I don’t suppose that name means anything to you?”

“No,” said Ben, but he quickly went on, tugging on his right ear. “Well, I do know that Hermes was the Greek messenger god, the son of Zeus and the Pleiad Maia. It’s said that he wore winged sandals and was the patron god of swineherds, but I don’t see how that would be relevant here.”

“Yeah, that’s not quite what we meant,” said Steve with a wry smile.

“The fact is, we don’t know what they’re up to, either,” Sam put in. “We’ve managed to find three bases here where HYDRA has taken prisoners for Hermes. Your friend, Delmar, he was one of them.”

“Yes, Steve mentioned that he directed you here,” Ben said. “Why would they take him?”

“We don’t know,” said Sam. “But he was one of the lucky ones.”

Ben paled. “Lucky?” he repeated.

“He’s fine,” Steve assured him quickly. “The doctors didn’t hurt him at all.”

“They probably just didn’t have time,” Bucky muttered.

“But he told us about others,” Steve continued, after a nervous glance in Bucky’s direction. “They were taken to one side of the complex and never heard from again. And some of the equipment we found over there...”

Steve trailed off, so Sam took over. “We think they’ve been doing neuroscience experiments of some kind. To what end, we aren’t sure. We’re hoping that the intel we took can shed some light on their purpose.”

“And their results, if they’ve gotten that far,” Steve finished grimly.

Ben shifted in his seat. “Oh, dear,” he mumbled.

Steve leaned in again, resting his elbows on the table. “But no one knows that we’re chasing this,” he said seriously. “Like I said, it’s classified. So our number one priority right now is stealth. We’ve been flying under the radar, and that can’t change.”

“Can’t have the cops busting us when really we’re doing them a favor,” Sam added.

“I’m certain the authorities could be persuaded to make an exception,” Ben began.

“I’m not,” said Bucky flatly.

“Since Sokovia, the government’s been getting sick of exceptions,” Steve agreed. “We can’t just go around guns blazing.”

“I understand,” Ben replied, though he looked troubled. “Did you, um, bring your firearms into the country legally?”

Bucky smirked. “Not exactly.”

“I see.”

“Gun laws are the least of our concerns right now,” Steve said. “Though, if you’re in, we’d like you to pull a few strings with the RCMP for us.”

Ben bit his bottom lip again, but he nodded. “They're not overly fond of me there, I'm afraid, but I could call on the detachment first thing in the morning. Any specific queries?”

Steve exchanged a look with Sam and Bucky before he began. “Well, three nights ago, we raided a base, and it didn’t exactly go as planned."

“That’s putting it mildly,” Bucky retorted.

Steve raised his eyebrows at him. “You got a better expression?”

Bucky shrugged. “FUBAR?”

Steve shot him a look of fond exasperation, while Ben furrowed his brow in confusion. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with—”

“Never mind,” Sam said quickly. “Point is, it went bad, I got shot, and we had to burn the place to the ground. If the cops are looking into it, we need to know what they know, see if they’re on our trail.”

“It doesn’t seem like they are,” Steve clarified. “It’d be nice to be sure, though.”

“Also,” Sam added, “if they have any information on domestic terror threats, something that might be HYDRA, we want to know.”

“It’s a long shot,” Steve conceded. “But it might save us having to hack into CSIS any more than we already have.”

Ben swallowed hard, but he nodded. “Understood,” he said in a mostly steady voice. His tongue hovered near the corner of his mouth. “I’ll, uh, see what I can do.”

“Hey,” said Bucky suddenly. They all turned to face him, but his eyes were locked on Ben’s alone. “We’re the good guys.”

Sam watched a smile start to spread across Steve’s face, but it disappeared a second later when Bucky added, “Well, they are, anyway. Jury’s still out on me.”

“Bucky,” Sam rebuked softly.

“My point is, we’re stopping the bad guys. Even if our methods don’t seem exactly wholesome,” Bucky carried on, ignoring Sam’s interruption.

Ben hesitated, licking his lips again. Sam wondered just how many nervous habits the man had.

“HYDRA has to be stopped,” Ben said after a moment, and it was almost a question.

“They have to be stopped,” Steve affirmed. “Will you help us?”

“I will,” Ben said at last. “Just tell me what you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan on uploading the first four chapters so close together, but together they form a nice chunk of the narrative, and I didn't want to interrupt the flow or, worse, leave you all with a cliff-hanger! So, begging your patience, there's going to be a bit of a wait before you get the next section (chapters 5 through 7). Thank you to all my readers and cheerleaders -- you're the best :)


	5. Nightmare

After dinner, Steve and Ben cleaned up in the kitchen while Bucky made several trips back and forth to the shed, hauling in their supplies. All three of them turned down Sam’s offer to help, leaving him feeling rather useless and wandering in the living room.

The grey dog was seemingly asleep on the hearth, but he cracked an eye as Sam approached. His tail thumped twice, and Sam crouched down to scratch his ears before straightening up to look more closely at the photographs on the mantle.  

There were several formal shots of a petite brunette and her numerous children at various ages, and there were candids from two different weddings, one indoors and one on a beach. Most pictures, however, were of the same blond man — Ben’s late partner, Ray, Sam assumed.

Ray had a bright grin and eccentric hair and, on occasion, glasses. Sam picked up a silver-framed photo of the couple. Ray was looking into the camera seriously, while Ben was grinning at Ray. Sam noticed that Ray’s eyes were a lot like Steve’s, blue shot through with something like gold, which made him smile.

His smile turned into a frown, though, when he realized where the picture had been taken. Sam turned around and saw the same corner of the couch directly behind him. They must have set the camera on the mantle, which meant that they had been posing for the picture in the exact same place where Sam was now standing.

A chill went through him, despite his proximity to the fire, and Sam set the photo down hastily.

He headed back into the warmth of the kitchen, where Ben was telling Steve about losing his vision while he was lost in the wilderness.

“Blind?” Steve repeated. “You went blind?”

“Only temporarily,” Ben reassured him. He glanced over to include Sam in the conversation. “You see, I had sustained a blow to the head in the plane crash, and the swelling put pressure on my optic nerve.”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered. “It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

Ben laughed a little as he drained the sink and dried his hands. “Ray told me the same thing many times.” He cleared his throat. “Now, I imagine you’ll want to turn in soon? It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Steve agreed. “Bucky went out to get the sleeping bag, so we’ll set it up—”

“No, no. Take my bed,” Ben interrupted.

Steve shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but we couldn’t possibly—”

“I insist.”

Steve protested, then Ben protested again, and what followed was one of the politest arguments Sam had ever witnessed. Bucky wandered into the kitchen in the midst of it and gave Sam a disbelieving look.

Sam shrugged. “Canadian politeness, meet 1940s courtesy,” he muttered with a grin. 

Bucky nodded, then leaned in close to his ear. “You think this was how their night together went? ‘Please allow me to blow you.’ ‘No, no, I insist.’”

Sam snorted, and Steve broke off whatever he was saying to look at him. “What are you two snickering about?”

“Nothing,” said Bucky sweetly. “But you should probably quit arguing. Sam’s the one who’s hurt. He should decide where he wants to sleep, and the rest of us will work around him.”

“Of course,” Ben said, his face coloring. “I didn’t even think—”

“Sorry, Sam,” said Steve.

Sam just shook his head at them. “Floor,” he said firmly. “I sleep better on the ground.”

Bucky waved his hand theatrically in Sam’s direction, the light glinting off his metal fingers. “There you have it, gentlemen. Problem solved.”

* * *

They said their goodnights, and the dog trooped upstairs with Ben. Sam, Steve and Bucky got settled between the layers of blankets in their sleeping bag in front of the fire, which had burned down somewhat, but they left the lamp on for the time being.

Normally, Sam slept in the middle. Bucky tended to alternate rather suddenly between wanting to be close to them and needing his own space, so he slept on the right, since it was easier for him to get free in a hurry if he had to. Steve generally fell asleep holding Sam close, but when he had a nightmare, he would get up to walk it off, so he slept on Sam’s left, where he’d liked being since the day they met. Sam, for his part, enjoyed being between them, especially when it was cold, and, unless he was fighting a bout of insomnia, he was the most likely to sleep through the night, so their arrangement worked well.

Since he’d been shot, though, they’d rearranged themselves so that Steve was in the middle, on Sam’s right. This let Sam rest his good side on Steve and kept him from lying too much with his weight on his injured arm.

Once he was settled at Steve’s side, he opened the battered copy of _Neuromancer_ he’d found at a second-hand shop before they left for Canada. He liked to read before bed, and someone he worked with at the VA had recommended the novel to him years ago. He reminded himself to get Bucky to read it once he was done; given what he’d told Sam about the pulp sci-fi he’d read before the war, it seemed right up his alley.

While he read, Bucky and Steve shared Sam’s tablet to play a few rounds of their ongoing game of Monopoly. This, more or less, had been their night time mission routine for months, and Sam reveled in its comfortable familiarity, feeling his fatigue wash over him after reading only a few pages.

He set the book down and cuddled up to Steve’s left side, preparing for sleep. He expected Steve and Bucky to stay awake a little longer — they normally would — but at Sam’s movement, they turned the tablet off and Bucky extracted himself to get up and switch off the lamp.

Steve pulled Sam close in the sudden darkness. “If you’re not too tired,” he whispered, “it’s your turn.”

Sam’s brain turned to fuzz as the words sent a shiver from his ear all the way down. “Not too tired,” he mumbled. “But why is it my turn?”

Steve didn’t reply, at least not in words. He pushed Sam gently onto his back and straddled him, leaning down to give him a deep, wet kiss. Sam was just starting to get into it when Steve pulled back, his lips brushing Sam’s jaw and neck and working their way down. Sam had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from making a noise when Steve yanked down the collar of the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing, and his tongue found a nipple.

Smooth fingers suddenly entwined with his, and Sam rolled his head to the right to find Bucky very close to him.

“Don’t worry, doll, we got it all worked out,” Bucky whispered. “I got mine in the shed earlier, so it’s my job to keep you quiet now while Stevie gives you yours. Okay?”

At Sam’s dazed nod, Bucky kissed him gently, pulling up often to give Sam breathing breaks. Sam was frustrated — why wouldn’t either of them just make out with him? — until Steve eased his pants down, and suddenly Sam found himself short of air. Steve started working Sam’s cock with one sure hand while teasing the tip with his mouth, sucking and licking, then pulling away. In a very short amount of time, Sam was achingly hard, and he caught himself hitching his hips upwards, only to have Steve hold him down and take him deep.

Sam’s grip on Bucky’s hand tightened at the sensation — so much _hot_ and _wet_ — and Bucky squeezed back, just hard enough to let Sam know he’d noticed, before he let go and raised himself up on his metal arm. His warm right hand cupped Sam’s cheek, and Steve pulled off his cock as Bucky kissed Sam, deeply, thoroughly, his tongue exploring all of Sam’s mouth. Sam writhed, thrusting forward with his hips into nothing, aching for Steve again, but Steve was too far away, running his hands along Sam’s bare thighs.

Bucky let up a little, letting Sam heave in a breath, and Steve’s mouth came back, so suddenly it brought Sam to the edge right away. But Steve just held him inside, and Sam was glad Bucky was keeping his mouth occupied because he would have had something to say about that if he could. Finally, Steve’s tongue started moving over the head of his cock, fast and hard, as Bucky’s did the same in his mouth, and when Steve took him deep again, it was too much. Sam bit down on Bucky’s bottom lip as he came, rocking his hips up into Steve’s mouth.

Bucky kissed him down from the edge, while Steve licked him clean and put his clothes to rights. Sam had a moment of relief that their plan had worked, that he hadn’t made a sound. _Soldiers and their tactics,_ he thought muzzily, as they pulled back and arranged themselves on his right side. A minute later, he rolled over onto Steve’s chest, and when he opened his bleary eyes, Bucky was right there beside him, his cheeks slightly flushed, his eyes already closing.

Steve tightened his arms around both of them, and Sam fell asleep to the sound of their breathing and the faint crackle of the fire at their feet.

* * *

He woke up some time later with the shaky sensation that he’d been shivering. His nose was cold, and his injured arm hurt because he was lying on it. He rolled over to find Steve exactly where he’d been when Sam had fallen asleep, his arm still around Bucky.

This confused Sam immensely. Steve wasn’t supposed to be in bed with Bucky. Bucky was dead.

Like Ray.

Sam blinked up at the ceiling several times as he processed that thought, obviously left over from a dream and deeply troubling. He focused on the here, the now — the feeling of the flannel sheet against his feet, the heavy wool blanket bunched below his chin, the twinge of pain in his left arm — to try and snap himself out of it, but as he became more awake, he became only more anxious, to the point where he stopped breathing to make sure Steve and Bucky still were.

When they’d each taken four deep, slow breaths, and Sam was feeling light-headed from oxygen deprivation, he tried to move closer to Steve — he wanted to — but he froze, uneasy and afraid.

Someone was watching him.

He knew it with the same certainty that he’d had at the HYDRA base, and he sat up sharply, turning his head from side to side, watching the shadows change in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t see much in the glow of the fading fire; he couldn’t know that no one was there.

“Hello?” he whispered.

Nothing moved, nothing changed, but the sensation was still present.  

“Who’s there?” he tried, a little louder.

He was dimly aware that his body was registering a threat: his heart was pounding in his chest, tears were prickling in the corners of his eyes, and his palms were sweating. Chills coursed through his neck and shoulders, and when Steve twitched beside him, Sam jumped in alarm and kicked out, his foot colliding hard with Steve’s thigh.

Steve’s eyes snapped open — Sam could see their glint in the faint light — and he raised his head.

“Sam?” he croaked.

Sam didn’t speak, instead drawing shuddering breaths as the feeling of being watched started, gradually, to retreat.

Steve moved Bucky off him and sat up. His hands — very warm, very dry — took Sam’s cold, clammy ones.

“Hey,” Steve said softly. “Sam, it’s all right. It’s all right, Sam.”

Steve went on in a low, soothing tone, his hands still loose around Sam’s. He was doing what Sam did when Steve had a bad dream, but Sam hadn’t had a nightmare.

At least, he didn’t think so.

He blinked slowly, bringing Steve’s worried face into clearer focus in the dim light.

“Hey,” he mumbled, and Steve smiled a little in relief.

“Hi,” he said back. “You okay?”

When Sam nodded, Steve inched closer, until he was able to pull Sam into his arms. Sam let himself sag against Steve’s solid warmth and fall apart a little. Steve rubbed his back, murmuring about how Sam was safe, that everything was okay.

“You’re cold, baby,” Steve whispered, and he held Sam a little tighter. “You’re shaking.”

From far away, Sam registered the pet name. Steve wasn’t keen on them, not like Bucky was. _Must have really scared him,_ Sam thought, and that realization put him back together somewhat. He couldn’t let Steve be scared about him; Steve carried too much as it was.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled, pushing back from Steve’s shirt, which had become damp with his sweat and tears. “Can you stoke up the fire?”

“Of course,” Steve replied, and he disentangled himself enough to get up.

Sam watched Steve tend to the fire, and, as the flames brought light back into the room, Sam looked around again, just to be sure.

There was no one in sight. He tried to feel comforted by that.

After a minute of steady breathing, Sam realized that he had to piss. Bucky mumbled something — Sam thought he heard the word _chickens_ — but he didn’t seem to wake when Sam stood up. Steve shot him a curious look, but Sam pointed in the direction of the bathroom, and he nodded. Sam felt his eyes on him the whole way. 

When Sam returned, Steve was sitting on the couch, watching the fire. Sam dropped down beside him, and Steve opened his arms for Sam to settle against his chest. Steve covered them both with a blanket, and they sat in silence until Sam thought Steve had dozed off.  

But he shifted suddenly and kissed Sam’s temple. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sam answered. “Just a little freaked is all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sam hesitated, remembering his earlier vow not to add to Steve’s burden, but the threat had been too real, his alarm too present and painful. He drew a deep breath, deciding that he owed Steve at least a part of the truth.

“I’ve been dreaming of the last base we hit,” he said at last, telling himself it wasn’t entirely untrue; the base was never far from his mind. “I keep seeing it over and over. I go in the room, and I see the doctor, and then I hesitate. And he shoots me.”

Steve’s arms tightened around him. “Worse than what actually happened?”

“Kind of,” said Sam. “But what’s scarier is the reason it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“It happened — in the dream,” Sam was careful to add, “it happened because there was somebody else there. Somebody I couldn’t see. I was so sure that somebody was watching me that I let the bad guy get the drop on me.”

“But it was just a dream,” Steve murmured, squeezing Sam’s forearm. “You’re safe now.”

“No,” said Sam before he could stop himself. “Because tonight I — I dreamed that I was here, and that feeling came again. It freaked me out.”

Steve hummed in agreement, and they lapsed into silence. Sam could feel the concern radiating through every line of Steve’s body against him, and after a moment he felt the need to go on, to reassure him again, the way he always did when he could tell someone was worrying about him.

“Just a dream,” he said. “I’m all right now, feeling much better. Thanks.”

“All right,” Steve said lowly. He sounded a little more convinced.

 _That’s better,_ Sam thought. He pushed up and kissed Steve — for a second, he swore he could taste Steve’s worry, as absurd as that seemed — then relaxed against his chest. Steve nuzzled the back of his neck a moment before going still. The fire crackled in front of them, and Sam had started to feel sleepy and drained by the time Steve spoke again.

“What did it feel like?”

“Hm?” said Sam, barely opening his eyes.

“The feeling you had.”

“Oh,” Sam replied, with a breath that was almost a laugh. “Honestly? Creepy. Tingles. Chills. Sweats.”

Steve nodded, his soft beard brushing the nape of Sam’s neck. “Like you saw a ghost.”

“Something like that, yeah.” Sam shivered unexpectedly. Steve must have felt it because he held him closer.

They stayed on the couch a while longer in silence, periodically squeezing each other’s hands or trading slow, sleepy kisses. Eventually, Steve moved, all but lifting Sam off the couch and lowering him onto the floor. Sam crawled into the sleeping bag beside Bucky, who was snoring gently, and Steve got on Sam’s other side.

Sam snuggled down into the warmth — he’d missed being in the middle — and he’d started to doze, when Steve suddenly got up again, rousing Sam back into wakefulness.

In the dim light of the fire, he watched Steve pace around the room a few times before going to the mantle and picking up one framed picture. He looked at it closely, staring for a long moment, and then he laid it gently face-down on the stone.

Sam closed his eyes, pretending not to have seen, as Steve turned back. He got into the sleeping bag behind Sam and slung an arm over his waist. Sam waited, breathing like he was asleep, but Steve didn’t move again.

As Steve’s breathing evened out, and Sam started to fade into sleep, he thought, _Don’t worry, Ray, I’ll tell him_ , and he didn’t know why.


	6. Intel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Update 03-25-2017: This chapter has been changed.]  
> [Update 12-05-2017: This chapter has been changed.]

The next time Sam woke up, it was morning. He was on his back with Steve's hot, heavy weight half on top of him: Steve’s head was tucked almost under Sam's chin, his arm was draped over his chest, and his thigh was across Sam's hips. Sam wriggled experimentally, but Steve didn't tighten his hold; this was sleepy affection, not a nightmare-induced death grip.

In the bright, warm light of morning, everything from last night felt hazy. If he weren’t on Steve’s right, Sam might have thought that the whole experience had been a dream. For a few minutes he almost did, but then his eyes landed on the mantle, where the picture was face-down the way Steve had left it in the middle of the night.

Sam felt a small chill run through him. Steve stirred and made a tiny pained sound, and Sam fought the feeling off, running his fingers through Steve’s hair until he settled again, sighing in his sleep.

Bucky was gone from Sam’s other side. If he strained his ears, Sam could hear him speaking softly in the kitchen, blurry Russian syllables. Sam wondered when and why Natasha had called, but before he could get up to investigate, Bucky walked back into the living room, running his metal hand over his face.

“Hi,” Sam whispered up at him.

Bucky froze. Sam thought he saw something flash behind his eyes, a certain wariness, but he smiled, and it was gone.

“Looks like you’re not going anywhere for a while, huh,” he commented with some amusement.

Sam tried to shrug, but he couldn’t really move. “He’s comfy, so it’s all good. What did Nat want?”

“Heard that, did you?” Bucky’s smile had gone a little hard at the edges, like he was forcing it to stay in place.

“How do you say _Don’t worry, I don’t speak Russian_ in Russian?” Sam joked.

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “You didn’t miss much. Tasha’s got a location and Maria’s got some data decrypted. They’ll be sending it along soon.”

“That’s good,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, but he sounded distracted. He sank down on to the floor in front of the sofa, extending his long legs beside Sam. He sighed when Sam extracted himself from Steve enough that he could turn his head, resting his cheek against Bucky’s thigh.

“Everything all right?” Sam asked.

Bucky’s left hand brushed Sam’s hair, settling by his collarbone. “Yeah,” he said again. “Just tired.”

“Lots of room down here,” Sam informed him.

“Okay,” Bucky yawned after a moment and slid down. When he was settled, he leaned over and kissed Sam’s cheek.

Sam blinked at him, confused. “What was that for?”

“I love you,” Bucky said quietly.

Sam smiled automatically, but he was still a little puzzled. “You, too.”

Bucky tucked his head into Sam’s shoulder as he cuddled up close, covering the bits of him that Steve wasn't already monopolizing. As his breathing slowed, Sam closed his eyes, hoping he could drop back into sleep as well.

He was almost dozing a few minutes later when Bucky mumbled, “Worried about you.”

Sam’s body tensed, and he opened his eyes. He waited for Bucky to go on, to tell him he’d overheard his and Steve’s conversation last night, or say that he wanted to talk more about yesterday’s weird déjà vu moment.

But Bucky didn’t speak again. He seemed to be sleeping soundly. Still, Sam waited another minute before he buried his nose in Bucky’s hair and kissed the top of his head.

“Me too, baby,” he whispered. “Me too.”

* * *

Some time later, after Steve and Bucky got up, and after Sam let them pretend to be mad about having slept so late, Sam found himself upstairs with Ben.

The loft wasn’t quite what Sam was expecting. In the left corner was a bed, peppered gray with dog hair, while the right corner housed a desk, complete with a computer, a printer, and a house plant that looked like it could use a little more attention. At the top of the stairs, between the railing and the desk, at Sam’s immediate right, was a round table crowded with various items: photos of Ray, a pair of black-framed glasses, a silver bracelet, and a set of car keys. Like he had with the photograph, Sam got a chill as he surveyed the shrine.

He was only half-listening as Ben explained how parts of Northern Canada had recently received full cell and Internet service. Instead, he was looking at the objects on the table, casual and everyday things that had obviously belonged to Ray and still carried so much emotional weight for Ben. Sam’s mind turned again to the disturbing experience of last night — from the cold certainty that Bucky was dead, to the irrefutable knowledge that he wasn’t alone, to the thought that had crossed his mind right before sleep — and the question slipped out before he’d made the conscious decision to ask it.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sam didn’t, not really. He’d heard stories, of course, from vets who had breakfast with a soldier in Afghanistan, only to find out that that soldier had been blown up two days prior, but he’d never experienced anything himself. He didn’t watch any of those stupid TV shows or visit phony haunted houses on Halloween. And, even after everything that had changed in the world since aliens fell out of the sky in New York — even though he was currently romantically involved with two superheroes who should have been dead a long, long time ago — he still didn’t think it was plausible that spirits would be roaming around, pestering the living.

But something about his dream last night, about the experiences he’d been having since he got  shot, told him it was the right question to ask, and it was the right time to ask it.

Ben had fallen silent and was giving Sam a strange, sharp look. “Not anymore,” he said carefully.

“Not anymore?” Sam repeated.

Ben sighed, his eyes landing on the cluttered table before them. “My father believed in something he called the Borderlands, where spirits dwelled before moving on. He called it _an existential de-militarized zone_.”

“Sounds like your dad had a good sense of humor.”

Ben smiled, a little sadly. “He used to irritate me to no end. But now I miss him. Almost.”

“How long has he been gone?”  Sam asked.

“The last time I saw him... was March, 1999.”

“Wow,” Sam murmured, but then he picked up on Ben’s language, his careful hesitation. “Wait, _saw_ him? Alive?”

Ben turned to face him. He had the look of a man who’d accepted the fact that his listener was going to think that he was insane. It was a look that Sam recognized from some of his vets.

“He died in 1994,” Ben said, and the tilt of his chin was almost defiant.

Sam blinked, but he schooled his features into a blank mask. “So when you say you don’t believe in ghosts anymore....”

“I haven’t seen anything since my father left that would lead me to believe in the existence of ghosts,” Ben stated, matter-of-factly, and he turned his attention to the computer, turning his back on Sam entirely. “I can only assume that my father’s presence was a mental anomaly, something not easily repeated.”

“I see,” Sam said softly. He could guess at what, or who, Ben hadn’t seen in the last few years that would lead him to that conclusion.

That settled it, then. The cabin wasn’t haunted; Sam was.

* * *

Ben left Sam to work, heading out back to cut wood with Steve and Bucky, and Sam called Natasha for instructions, only to find that she barely had time to talk. She guided him through setting up a secure connection at light speed, before dumping the data in his lap.

“We know they’re important files, because they took forever to decrypt, but we can’t spare a second to vet them,” she explained, her voice sounding distant and a little out of breath. For some reason, Sam pictured her balancing on one foot, trying to yank a boot on one-handed. “My sources just got a hit in Cleveland, a SHIELD agent who went off the grid right before Insight, and we’ve got to move now. I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded. “No big,” he replied. “I’ll sort through this, you and Maria just stay safe.”

“You too,” said Nat. “Don’t get shot again.”

“Believe me, it is not on my to-do list,” Sam told her, rubbing at his itchy stitches through his shirt. “Get in touch when you can.”

“Will do,” Natasha answered, and the line went dead.

Sam set down the phone and turned his attention to the files that had appeared on the screen. He opened the first one to find a map and coordinates for the third HYDRA base they had to take down. Sam studied it a moment, wondering why the name of the pass sounded familiar. He must have seen it on Delmar’s map, he decided.

He opened the second file, which was much larger, and found— well, he wasn’t sure what he found. It was a massive spreadsheet comprising hundreds of names and indecipherable codes. 

“I need more coffee,” said Sam.

* * *

Two hours later, he decided that he’d had enough of squinting at the tiny marks on the screen, so he printed it out, vowing to reimburse Ben for the ink and paper at some point. He printed Nat’s map, too, and was comparing it with the much-annotated one they’d had in their pack, when a voice from behind startled him. He whirled around to see Steve’s head at the top of the stairs as he climbed the last few steps.

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I assumed you heard me come in.”

“Yeah, well, for a big guy you move quiet,” Sam replied, feeling his heart rate return to normal.

“Sorry,” Steve said again. “How are you making out?”

Sam sighed. “Well,” he said, and he gestured at the scattered print-outs that surrounded him.

“Yikes,” Steve commented. Very professional, that one. “How’s Nat?”

Sam gave him a quick update on what Natasha had told him about her source in Cleveland. There wasn’t much more than to tell, given the way she’d been rushing out the door, but Sam, thinking of their conversation on the phone the day before, decided to ask something that had been bothering him since they’d arrived.

“Have you decided what we’re going to do about Ben?”

Steve frowned, narrowing his eyes. “In what sense?”

Sam hesitated. “I know that you trust him,” he began, somewhat delicately. “And I’m not disputing that he’s worthy of that trust. But this is sensitive intel I’ve got here, and I’m wondering how much of it we’ll be sharing.”

When Steve’s expression didn’t clear, Sam hurried to add, “It’s not that I think he’ll compromise us. It’s just that, what we’re dealing with, it’s not something a civilian usually sees, you know?”

“You’re worried it’ll upset him?” Steve asked.

Sam shrugged. “Among other things, yeah, I guess I am,” he admitted. “It’s HYDRA — it’s pretty upsetting stuff. I just think maybe it would help if I knew what Ben’s role is here. Is he just providing a safe house, or...?”

Sam’s words ran out, and Steve didn’t take over. His eyes were wandering around the room, taking in the documents and maps that Sam hadn’t yet sorted into coherent piles. After a moment, he nodded and took in a deep breath.

“You’re not wrong,” he said finally. “And the truth of the matter is, I don’t know what Ben’s role is in this, not exactly. But he’s an asset, and I’d rather not keep him in the dark, if possible.”

Sam considered this and nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I’m not sure that answers your question,” Steve added, with a familiar half-smile. “Classified information aside, I don’t really like secrets, Sam, you know that.”

Sam was grateful that Steve wasn’t looking at him because he couldn’t help hesitating again, licking his lips before he spoke. 

“There’s a difference between keeping a secret to deceive somebody and keeping a secret to protect them,” he said, cautious.

Steve rubbed his forehead. “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted after a moment. “But I don’t like it.” 

 _I don’t like it either_ , is what Sam should have said, but he didn’t. He continued to collect the pages spread around him and shuffle them into neat bundles. It gave him an excuse to avoid Steve’s eye. 

Steve didn’t seem to notice Sam’s distraction. He was talking again, telling Sam about how Ben was going to take them into town for a supply run and touch base with the RCMP while he was at it.

“You wanna come?” Steve asked. “I’ll let you drive one of the snowmobiles.”

Sam smiled and hoped it looked more genuine than it felt. “Thanks, but there’s still a lot of work to do here.”

“Do you need me to stick around, give you a hand?”

Sam didn’t need to hesitate on that one; Steve had the patience of a pre-schooler when it came to paperwork. Sam stepped into Steve’s space and kissed him, keeping the printed pages hidden between them. He wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to distract, but Steve’s hand snaked around his waist, holding Sam tight as he opened to the kiss, tasting the fresh air on Steve’s lips, breathing in the smoky sawdust scent of Ben’s workshop.

“Go,” Sam said eventually, pulling back with some difficulty. “See the sights, don’t get caught. Bring me back a souvenir. Maybe some maple syrup covered moose meat?”

Steve grinned. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t work too hard.”

“Just hard enough,” Sam countered, and Steve laughed. He kissed Sam once more, soft and lingering, before heading down the stairs.

“Love you,” he called up.

“You too, “ Sam answered.

Sam waited until he heard the cabin door bang shut again before he ran a hand over his face and sighed. First Bucky and now Steve — a lot of love going around here today, he thought, and felt an immediate surge of guilt.

They knew. Even if Bucky had let it go yesterday, and Steve had held Sam in silence as he recovered from his nightmare last night, they knew. Maybe they didn’t know enough to badger it out of him, but they knew he was keeping something from them, just as surely as he knew that there was something to keep, and it was only a matter of time before it came out.

But Sam needed more time. He had to figure this haunted thing out before he brought it to them. Not to mention make sure he wasn’t losing his marbles, though it was sure starting to feel that way. He found himself almost wishing for proof of the paranormal — something he’d never devoted any thought to before. If only there was some way to know for sure that...

That what? That Ray’s ghost was following Sam around, watching over him as he hung out with his former lover? The idea was laughable— or it would be, if Sam weren’t so desperate to prove that he wasn’t going insane.

He gave his head a sharp shake. There were more important things to worry about just now. The mission had to come first.

He sat down at the desk again and pulled the many pages of the list toward him again. He skimmed the rows, looking for anything useful. They weren’t arranged alphabetically by name, which was annoying — Sam kept losing his place. Instead, the names were grouped into categories and assigned letter designations: AP, TK, PM, RC, IN, and EM. None of these meant anything to Sam, and the names were all—

Wait. There. IN-39. Stanley Raymond Kowalski. Who was that? Why did Sam know that name?

He looked up, thinking hard, but a noise to his left caught his attention — a scraping, tapping noise. He turned, expecting to see tree branches hitting the window, but instead, it was a frame — containing some kind of certificate or something —  banging against the wall like there was an earthquake, but the ground wasn’t shaking as far as Sam could tell, and nothing else in the room was moving.

“Holy shit,” Sam murmured, as the frame gave one last dramatic quiver and dislodged itself from the nail and slid to the floor. No sooner had it landed when the two on either side of it started rattling as well.

Sam just stood there, too stunned to even reach for his phone to record what he was witnessing. It was over less than a minute later, when both frames stopped shaking as suddenly as they’d started.

Sam, feeling numb all over, drew in a deep breath and stepped forward, picking up the frame that had fallen. He hung it up, taking a moment to straighten it as an excuse not to think about what had just happened, and in doing so, he read the certificate. His jaw dropped.

_This citation for bravery is awarded to Detective Stanley Raymond Kowalski of the Chicago PD._

“Ray,” he whispered.

Sam’s entire body went cold when the center frame gave another tiny quiver, as if to say, _Yes, it’s me._

 _There’s my proof,_ Sam thought, dazed. He needed to sit down again.

He backed away, toward the desk, but a piece of paper crinkled under his feet. He crouched, picked up another page of the long list, and skimmed it as he made his way back to the desk chair.

But he didn’t make it that far. He froze, one hand on the chair, the other gripping the paper so hard it was sure to leave permanent folds.

Because there was another name on the list, a name that had been assigned the designation EM-16.A name that made Sam’s heart stop.

_Samuel Thomas Wilson._


	7. Debrief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Update 12-05-2017: This chapter has been changed.]  
> [Update 12-13-2017: This chapter has been changed.]  
> [Update 04-09-2018: This chapter has been changed.]

Fear moved through Sam like a cold wave as he finally managed to lower himself into the chair. His legs felt weak, his hands clammy, his brain fuzzy like he’d taken a blow — maybe a few blows — to the head.

“HYDRA knows me,” he mumbled at last. “HYDRA wants me dead.”

It maybe shouldn’t have come as a surprise; after all, he’d been fighting at Steve’s side for a full year now, ever since he took down that helicarrier in DC. Being HYDRA’s enemy was what he signed on for, and some small part of him was almost flattered to be treated as a threat. But to be on a list like this, to have his name, birthday, and address listed alongside a designation that didn’t mean anything to him — EM-16, what _was_ that? — it was chilling. Especially since he knew he hadn’t been on Insight’s radar. Not the way that Steve and a lot of the other Avengers had been. If they’d wanted Sam dead, wouldn’t a blast from a helicarrier be more effective?

Unless they didn’t want him dead.

But that made no sense. Ray was on this list — which definitely _was_ a surprise — and Ray was dead, so....

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe HYDRA had nothing to do with how Ray died— how _had_ Ray died? Sam realized suddenly that he had no idea. Ben hadn’t mentioned anything about Ray being captured by HYDRA; he acted like he hadn’t known that HYDRA had a presence here until Steve told him. It was possible that Ben lied to them, of course, but that didn’t sit right with Sam. It seemed more likely that HYDRA was very good at covering their tracks and hiding in plain sight.

But regardless of whether or not Ben knew of HYDRA’s involvement, the outcome was the same: Ray was dead, and Sam, apparently, was next. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry and sour-tasting from the coffee he’d been drinking, and wondered what to do now.

First things first, he’d have to ask Ben about Ray’s death. Sam had to know what had happened, to figure out if it was possible that HYDRA killed him, and, if so, why.

And he’d have to tell Steve. Everything. Finding his name on HYDRA’s hit list went far beyond some weird dreams that he was having, and the consequences of keeping it to himself were a lot more serious than just making his lovers worry. This was highly relevant to the mission, and Sam had no excuse to keep any of it to himself. Still... he hesitated, wondering how Steve and Bucky would react.

Worst case scenario, they’d bench him, send him back to the States to hang out with Nat and Maria. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except for the sinking feeling that he got when he thought about it. It came with a sharp feeling of disappointment, like he was letting someone down.

No. Not _someone_. Ray.

“So it really is a ghost,” he said through nearly numb lips. Ten minutes ago, that knowledge would have been a relief — he had proof that he wasn’t losing his mind, after all. But now....

 _He’s reaching out to me,_ Sam thought, _because we’re in the same situation._ It was the classic ghost story: an unrested spirit sending the living a message, a warning. Sam had heard anecdotes like these from soldiers, but he never expected to find himself starring in one.

If Ray was warning Sam, though, what could he be trying to say? What was HYDRA after, and why did they have their sights set on some people, like Sam, and not others, like Steve? HYDRA was making a list, so it really was like Insight all over again — except that this time, the good guys had even less information, along with fewer resources.

With that realization, Sam made a decision: Steve and Bucky had to know about everything — the list, the map, the ghost — regardless of how crazy the ghost part made him sound, regardless of how little he had to go on as far as an explanation. He was in over his head, and the strongest thing that he could do right now was ask for help.

He picked up his phone, dialled Steve’s number, then hesitated with his thumb over the green icon. They’d have to have this conversation on speaker, so Bucky could be involved, and Ben would be with them....

Sam definitely didn’t want to tell Ben about Ray yet. That kind of conversation had to be held in person, and preferably only after they’d sussed out what, if anything, HYDRA had done to Ray. 

So he tucked his phone back in his pocket and headed out to prep the dog sled. He wouldn’t be as fast as the snowmobiles, but if he hurried, he could follow the tracks into town.

* * *

The RCMP outpost was a square brown building that looked familiar, even though Sam had never been there before. _Small towns,_ he told himself. _They all look the same._

By the time Sam arrived, Ben and his “cousins,” as the officer at the front desk called them, had already gone. When Sam asked if she knew where Ben had gone, she was polite — of course — directing Sam to the gear shop at the end of the street. It was a perfectly normal conversation between two people, but Sam was very aware of the way that she stared at him, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t just because his skin tone stuck out around these parts. There was something off about her — he could feel it like a spider web against the back of his neck.

 _Cops,_ he thought with a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. Out of long habit, Sam kept his hands in sight as he thanked her and left.

He’d made it about halfway to the sled when something that he had just seen registered in his brain. He stopped, walked back a few steps to see what had caught his eye.

There was an enclosed bulletin board in front of the building, containing about a dozen missing persons posters. He’d seen boards like this before — hell, there was one by the restrooms at Walmart — but one poster stood out. Tanaraq Russell. He recognized the name, and realized after a second that it was because he’d seen it on HYDRA’s list.

“A shame, isn’t it?” said a voice to his right.  

Sam turned, slightly startled, and found a short elderly woman beside him, wrapped in a puffy parka and furry scarf. Her eyes were dark, her skin fine and fragile-looking. She reminded him, weirdly, of a wisp of smoke.

“Pardon me?” he asked.

The woman nodded at the poster that had caught his eye. “Tanaraq. Poor thing, she’d be all grown up this year.”

Sam looked again, checked the date of birth that matched HYDRA’s list. Tanaraq had just turned fourteen when she disappeared, and she’d been missing for almost four years now.

“Wow,” he murmured. “So they never found...?”

The woman beside him shook his head. “Barely even looked. Native girl goes missing, even up here, it’s just another drop in the bucket.”

Sam nodded grimly. He was all too familiar with stories like this, albeit from the other side of the border. “The Mounties?” he asked, even though he could guess what the answer would be.

The old woman snorted. “Useless,” she said, “except for one.”

“Let me guess,” said Sam. “Benton Fraser?” The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I may have heard of him,” Sam explained. He stuck out his mittened hand. “I’m Sam.”

“Marion Yumoni,” she replied, but she didn’t shake his hand. Instead, she nodded, almost bowing her head to him, and he returned the gesture, even though it seemed a bit strange.

“I’m one of the village elders,” she continued. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

She said it like a question — and she sounded an awful lot like his mother when she did — so Sam smiled politely and gave her the truth. “I’m just passing through.”

Marion nodded, as though she knew there was a lot more that he wasn’t saying, before she turned back to the board in front of them.

“He didn’t want to let her go,” she said. “Benton, I mean. And that partner of his, he was worse than a dog with a bone. American,” she added, like she was letting him in on a secret.

“Ah,” Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t give up, huh?”

Marion shook her head again, sadness clouding her face all at once. “And look what it cost him.”

Sam paused, then threw caution to the winds and forged ahead. “What happened?”

Marion sighed and stepped away from the missing persons board. Her eyes closed for a moment, and she seemed to sway a little on her feet.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked uncertainly. “There’s a bench, we could...” He gestured vaguely behind him, but she moved out of his grasp surprising quickly and shook her head.

“I’m fine, dear,” she said briskly, her eyes steady on the poster once more. “What was I saying? Oh, right.... It was nobody’s fault. No matter what Benton might say, he’s not to blame. In fact, he probably saved that boy from a quicker death a dozen times before his cable snapped. They were in the mountains,” she added, catching Sam’s look of confusion. “And he fell, the poor man. They never found his body.”

“Oh,” said Sam, with a rush of familiar pain. _Like I was up there just to watch._

Abruptly, he remembered the dream that had woken him up in the tent a few days ago. The mountain, climbing, falling — he’d been seeing Ray’s death for days now.

After a moment, Sam realized that Marion was still talking. With an effort, he pulled himself out of his thoughts enough to listen.

“Once Ray put his mind on something, there was nothing in the world that could change it,” she declared. “Sometimes I think it was all Benton could do to keep up with him.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Sounds like you knew Ray well,” he said, hoping his voice sounded halfway to normal.

Marion scoffed. “Only as well as everybody else around here did,” she replied. “He was funny, and not always ha-ha funny. The word he used was ‘queer,’ which— well, let’s just say the shoe fit.”

She paused, smiled fondly, and Sam realized what she was saying: that she knew about the nature of Ray and Ben’s relationship, and that it didn’t bother her.

“He was a good man,” she continued after a moment, proving Sam right. “I knew it from the second I met him. He had this spark, this ability to see through the bull and fight for what was right, even if he might’ve complained while he was doing it.”

Sam couldn’t help it; he smiled warmly at Marion. He could hear her love for Ray, could practically feel it radiating from her. Then the energy shifted, her demeanor changed.

“Tanaraq was a lot like that, too,” Marion said softly, sadly. “Creative, intuitive. Strong, through and through.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sam murmured. The words weren’t enough, but saying them was like a ritual, and it made him feel better.

“Thank you,” Marion replied. She drew a deep breath. “In any case, Ray was special.”

Sam waited, sure that Marion wasn’t finished. Sure enough, a moment later, she nodded to herself and went on.

“He did everything he could to save my granddaughter,” she said, and it took Sam a second to realize that she was talking about Tanaraq. “He had no authority, no jurisdiction, except that he was living with Benton — and what funny looks they got for that sometimes — but that didn’t stop him. And when the Mounties called off the search, Ray kept going, to the point that Benton got in some trouble with his bosses— not that that’s anything new for him, mind you.”

Sam hummed in agreement. Ben had mentioned last night that the Mounties weren’t overly happy with him. “So Ray was sure that Tanaraq was still alive?”

Marion grimaced. “I don’t know about that,” she said slowly. “But Ray gave his life going after her, and even if I never know what happened to my granddaughter, I do know this: I owe that man a debt I can never repay.”

Sam nodded. He understood now why Ben had plenty of Marion Yumoni’s caribou stew in his freezer and always would. _Fond of my late partner,_ Ben had said. Truly the master of understatement, that one.

“Well, you best be getting on,” Marion said, after a few moments had passed in silence. “Probably a lot for you to do. Since you’re just passing through and all,” she added, a knowing glint in her eye.

“Right,” Sam agreed. He jerked his head in the direction of the dog sled. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Oh, no,” Marion replied. “I wouldn’t want to be a burden.” She dropped her voice to barely above a whisper. “I’d hate to weigh down your wings.”

Sam froze, caught out, but Marion just smiled warmly at him and touched her nose with the tip of her mitten.

“Thank you,” Sam managed to say, and he stumbled to the sled to go track down the others. When he looked back a moment later, there was no sign of her.  

* * *

He found Bucky outside the gear shop, strapping bags to one of the snowmobiles. He looked up as Sam approached, and, though his face remained blank, Sam could sense the worry coming from him in waves. As Sam stopped the sled, he took a second to marvel at how good he had gotten at reading his partner’s emotions, then he shoved the thought aside to focus on putting Bucky’s mind at ease.

“Just needed some fresh air,” he said, and Bucky raised his eyebrows skeptically as he came over to him.

“Really,” he said.

“No,” Sam admitted. “I mean, I did want some air, but there are also a few things I gotta tell you guys, and I didn’t want to use the phone.”

Bucky nodded. “Steve’s still inside. Want me to go get him?”

“Not just yet,” said Sam. He breathed in, realized he had no idea what he was going to say. Best to start with the obvious, he decided. “Natasha sent me the location of the final base.”

“Good,” Bucky said neutrally. He was standing very still, waiting Sam out — he knew that Sam wouldn’t have come all the way to town just to tell him that.

“And a list of everyone that they’re after,” Sam went on clumsily. _Here’s the part where you tell him,_ he thought, but the words stuck in his throat.

“So it’s Insight all over again,” Bucky sighed, running a hand over his face.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked so tired it broke Sam’s heart. He realized again, with a cold stab of certainty, that he couldn’t add to Bucky’s burden by revealing that he himself was in danger.

He’d tell Steve, he decided. Steve would take the news better than Bucky would.

“What’s HYDRA want with these folks?” Bucky asked after a long, silent moment.

Sam didn’t need to lie or conceal any answer on that one — there was honestly nothing he could say — so he just shrugged. “Haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“Anything else?” Bucky said, his eyes locked on Sam’s.

Sam swallowed hard. “Just one more thing,” he lied. “It’s about Ben’s partner.”

* * *

Steve blinked. “Run that by me again?”

They were in the shed; Ben had agreed to go inside when Steve told him the three of them had something they needed to discuss in private. Sam had shared his news about the base, the list, the missing girl, and Ray — but he hadn’t said a word about himself yet.

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Tanaraq was on this list—”

“The list that we’re pretty sure is made up of HYDRA’s enemies?” Bucky interrupted.

“Right,” said Sam. “She was on there, and—”

“Why would HYDRA list a 14-year-old girl as their enemy?” asked Steve suddenly.

Sam shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. But she was on the list, and so was Ray. Now they’re both dead.”

“Well, we assume Tanaraq’s dead,” Bucky corrected him mildly. “I know it’s been three years, but you never know.”

Sam tilted his head, acknowledging the point. Bucky was living proof of it, after all.

“Do we know if anyone else on here ended up at the morgue?” Steve asked.

“If we could cross-reference it with a list of missing persons and suspicious deaths, we might be able to figure that out,” said Bucky, “but somehow I don’t think the Mounties are gonna let us get that close again.”

“I take it talking to them didn’t go well this afternoon?” Sam guessed.

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t think they recognized us, at least,” Steve said, exhaling a long, slow breath. “But they certainly didn’t like us poking around.”

“I got that impression as well,” Sam agreed, and he told them what Marion had said about the Mounties calling off the search despite Ray and Ben’s tenacity. The story brought a faint smile to Steve’s face, but it faded when Bucky brought up the fact that they were still no closer to knowing why HYDRA would take down a teenager and a middle-aged ex-cop.

“Well, they are the bad guys,” Steve said, somewhat weakly.

“No, they’ve got a plan, we just can’t see it yet,” Bucky insisted, chewing his bottom lip. “What about the letters and numbers beside people’s names? Do we know what they mean?”

Sam handed him the list — minus the page that had his name on it, of course — and Bucky frowned down at it. Meanwhile, Steve started pacing. Reflected in the windows, his form was multiplied to the point that Sam was almost dizzy watching him move. 

“Okay,” Steve said, as Sam looked away. “HYDRA was after her, and now she’s missing. Then Ray tried to find her, and he dies, supposedly in an accident. He must have been getting too close to something,” he concluded.

“Maybe to her,” Bucky mused. “I’m still not convinced she’s dead.”

“Her grandmother didn’t seem too hopeful,” Sam had to admit.

“Maybe she’s been dead this whole time,” Steve suggested. “And maybe that’s what Ray knew.”

“Maybe,” Bucky repeated. “Maybe.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by Steve’s shuffling feet — he wasn’t very good at sitting still, and right now his tension was palpable; Sam couldn’t blame him for fidgeting.

“It was probably damn convenient for HYDRA, another one of their targets attaching himself to the case,” Bucky murmured.

Sam and Steve glanced at each other, and Sam saw the thought occur to Steve at the same time it occurred to him. “You think she was bait?” Steve asked.

“Not just,” Bucky replied. The pages of the list crinkled as he dropped his hands to his side. “But once HYDRA realized that Ray wanted to find her, I’m willing to bet they lured him a little more. Maybe dropped some clues that she was alive, even if she wasn’t, and then....”

“Two birds,” Steve agreed grimly when he trailed off. “But why make it clear that he’s dead and leave her missing?”

“Cover,” Bucky said at once, tossing the list down on a work bench with a grimace. “It’s more believable for a teenage girl to disappear. Chances are it happens all the time around here.”

“Right,” Sam put in. “It’s the same old story everywhere, so it’s easy to spin. Teenager runs off, maybe with a guy, gets herself into trouble.” He shook his head and let out a frustrated breath. “Cops probably call her a prostitute, too.”

“Whereas a middle-aged white guy, known to spend a lot of time in the wilderness?” Steve said. “His disappearance would turn a lot more heads. Not to mention he was all-but married to a cop.”

Bucky nodded, his expression sour. Sam couldn’t help imagining how his face would change when he delivered his news about being on HYDRA’s list. As it was, Sam could practically see the dark cloud of worry that hovered around him. And Steve — whom Sam had thought would take it better — was pacing again. He’d picked up the list and rolled it into a tube, which he was smacking against his thigh. Sam watched him, feeling the silence press on him. He knew he should say something, he should tell them — he wanted to, but his mouth wouldn’t open, the words wouldn’t come.

“We have to tell Ben,” Steve declared suddenly, stopping in his tracks. “All this time, Ben’s been thinking that Ray’s death was his fault, but now we know otherwise. We’ve got to tell him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sam started to say, but Bucky interjected.

“No,” he said flatly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “We’re not telling him anything. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Steve expelled a sharp breath. “Why not?”

He looked to Sam, but Sam kept his expression neutral and looked to Bucky, who was shaking his head, his eyes hard and uncompromising.

“Because he’d want to come with us,” he explained. “He’d want vengeance, and Christ knows he’s entitled to it, but—”

“You don’t know that,” Steve broke in, but Bucky raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Didn’t you?” he asked, and Steve seemed to deflate a little. “We can’t have that kind of loose cannon with us,” Bucky went on. “Not when we don’t know what we’re walking into.”

The argument made sense, it was very logical, but Steve drew in a breath and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he still wanted to argue, to shout, to move. For a second, Sam saw the smaller, younger guy inside him — the one that Bucky would have hauled away from a fight if he had to — but then it passed; Steve exhaled and nodded, the sober and responsible captain once more.

“You’re right,” he said heavily. “I don’t like keeping secrets, but— you’re right.”

“I know,” Bucky replied, patting his shoulder. “So now what?”

They both looked to him, but Sam hesitated. This was his chance to tell them about what else he’d discovered — that HYDRA wanted him too, and Ray was trying to warn him from beyond the grave. Steve had even given him an opening. All he had to do was say, _Speaking of secrets, I have something to get off my chest...._ It was easy, it would be so easy, and yet...

And yet, Sam was a coward. He didn’t say a word.

Steve spoke when Sam didn’t. “I guess now we head for the third base and take these bastards out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bucky agreed.

Sam nodded, relieved to let the conversation end. As they headed back inside Ben’s cabin, he was struck with a new and oddly hopeful thought: maybe he could get through this without ever telling them about the danger he was in.

* * *

Dinner was a subdued affair, markedly different from the previous night’s stories and laughter. Sam had too much on his mind to make small talk, and he got the distinct impression that Bucky was in a similar headspace. Not to mention the bit of jealousy that he knew still flared up in both of them at every interaction between Ben and Steve. Watching them, Sam felt a mild ache in his chest, like what he was seeing was somehow out of his reach. He found himself wanting to stretch out his hands and touch, to intrude on their contact, while at the same time feeling like he never could.

Which was absurd, of course. Steve wasn’t going anywhere, and Sam had no reason to feel jealous of what he and Ben had. Logically, Sam knew this, but physically it hurt, like being left out. The tiniest contact felt deeply intimate: Ben leaned around Steve to grab a plate from the cupboard, and Sam got a flash of the two of them together, naked and sweaty. The thought made his stomach twist, his throat swell with nausea.

Sam blinked and shook his head quickly. Where had _that_ come from?

Bucky brushed his metal fingers against Sam’s wrist. “You okay?” he mumbled. 

“Yeah,” said Sam automatically. He managed a brief smile and took his seat at the table as a cover for not replying. He felt Bucky’s eyes on him, but Sam pretended that the silverware was fascinating until he looked away.

“Do you know the McKinnon Pass?” Steve asked Ben once they’d dished out the food.

Ben froze with a spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

Steve poked at his dinner. The action was casual, but Sam could tell he was feeling anything but. “Our intel came through. That’s where HYDRA’s stationed.”

“Oh,” said Ben. The syllable practically vibrated with relief. “Yes, I— I know it.”

“Good,” Steve replied, looking up with a quick smile. “I was hoping you could give us some directions. We have a map, but—”

“It would be better for me to come along,” Ben interrupted. His voice was steadier, much more normal, and when he set down his fork, his eyes were intense, locked on Steve. “I know it well. Well enough to know that it’s very dangerous. Even for you.”

“I’m sure we’ll be—” Steve began, but Ben cut him off again.

“Ray and I built a small cabin there one summer, with the blessing of the local people, for climbers and travellers to use,” he said. “It was Ray’s favourite place to climb. We would spend entire weeks there. Ray... liked the challenge, but that’s also what— I mean to say, that’s where....”

“He fell,” Steve finished softly. Ben nodded and lowered his head.

Bucky sent Sam an _I-told-you-so_ kind of look. Sam half-shrugged in reply; they’d already known that HYDRA was involved in Ray’s death, this shouldn’t have been a surprise. _Ray must have been getting too close to something,_ Steve had said. Sam wondered if that was literally.

Steve was saying something quietly to Ben, leaning over with one hand on Ben’s wrist. Ben was nodding, his eyes closed. Sam felt that strange pang behind his ribcage start again, followed by another wave of jealousy. He had to look away — and as he did, he found himself again wondering where this was coming from. Even last night, when Ben kissed Steve in front of him, Sam hadn’t felt like this. He remembered talking Bucky through the jealous feelings, and telling Ben that he wasn’t upset that they’d been together, but that was strictly cognitive; emotionally, physically, his body was jealous. And he didn’t know why.

“Steve,” said Bucky suddenly, startling Sam out of his thoughts.

The low tone sounded like a warning, which confused Sam. What had he missed? He glanced over, did a double take. Bucky was staring flatly at Steve, almost a glare, and Steve was staring right back, his jaw set in a familiar, stubborn line.

“It’s our best option, and you know it,” Steve said. “In fact, it’s our only option.”

“It is not,” Bucky said. Unlike Steve, he didn’t raise his voice at all, which somehow felt more dangerous to Sam. He wished they were shouting.

“All right, then, what do you propose?” Steve asked. He’d shoved his chair back a little from the table, put a little more space between him and Ben. Some small part of Sam was relieved by that.

“We made it this far with just a map,” Bucky answered. “There’s no need to put someone else in danger—”

“He has a right to come with us,” said Steve, enunciating every syllable. “To see—”

Bucky raised one eyebrow, and Steve fell silent. He dropped his gaze, then looked to Sam — for insight or maybe backup — but Sam didn’t want to get involved. They’d sort it out, he had no doubt, and he had his own issues to think about.

Moving slowly, he pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I’m going to get some fresh air,” he announced.

Steve and Bucky glanced at each other, and Sam felt more than saw their worry. He turned away and went to the front door, where his coat and boots were waiting. He was getting a headache, he realized as he dressed, and the exhaustion he’d been feeling for the last few days was creeping back up on him. He felt run down, like he’d spent days instead of hours with the knowledge that Ray was haunting him and HYDRA was hunting him.

And his shoulder hurt to boot.

But as he stepped outside, and circled the cabin to stand by the shed where he’d chickened out of revealing his secrets earlier, Sam felt his physical pain fade into a background hum. He looked up at the stars, blanked out in spots by the shimmering green of the Northern Lights, and did an internal scan, checking in to try and recognize his feelings and locate them in his body. It was a skill he learned a long time ago, along with mindfulness techniques, to let go of the intrusive and anxious thoughts that came with his PTSD, and every now and then he needed to re-learn it.

Like with tonight’s jealousy. He reached out, searching for the origin of that sensation. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the scene inside, watched Steve reach out, casually touch Ben’s arm and offer him comfort.

That was it. He didn’t want Steve to comfort Ben; he wanted to do it himself. But why? That didn’t make any sense. Unless—

This feeling, this jealousy, it wasn’t his. It was Ray’s. Like the dreams from his perspective, when he fell. So similar to his own, like Ray had found something in him to connect to, and was holding on for dear life. Ray was reaching out, he realized, and in that moment, Sam made a decision: he decided to reach back.

“Okay, Ray,” he said. “What do you want?”


	8. No Answers

The mist that formed Sam’s words dissipated in the cold air, leaving no trace. After a moment, even he doubted that he’d spoken at all.

It was crazy, right? It _felt_ crazy, standing out here in the middle of nowhere, talking to a ghost. A ghost who seemed, suddenly, to have nothing to say.

“Why me?” he asked out loud. “I mean, I know I’m on the list, too, so I appreciate you warning me, Ray, but in case you can’t tell, I’ve kinda got a handle on the whole enemy-of-Nazis thing. It’s been a while since....”

He let himself trail off as he was struck with a realization: Ray couldn’t have had any idea what he would discover while he was pursuing Tanaraq. HYDRA would have been nothing but a legend to Ray; he’d died before it was revealed within SHIELD — before Steve returned, even — so there was no way he could have guessed what he was wandering into.

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmured, overcome with pity and something like grief.

The feeling was Ray’s. Sam knew that, just like he knew he was feeling Bucky’s anxiety and Steve’s tension earlier. And the jealousy that had driven him from the cabin just a few moments ago? That hadn’t been his, either.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Sam found himself saying. Even with so much of his own stuff to deal with, he felt the need to address Ray’s pain, and once he did, it abated enough that he could focus again.

He watched the Northern Lights shimmer near the horizon and thought about everything that had happened today — how he’d lied to his partners and hidden the truth from them. He’d never kept a secret from someone he loved this long, and he knew it was foolish not to come clean. But every time he’d tried to open up to Steve and Bucky today, he’d found he couldn’t. It was like something was stopping him. Maybe it was his own cowardice; maybe it was something else. In either case, the guilt was sure to eat him up from the inside soon. His mother used to tell him he wore his heart on his sleeve, that he was too honest, just like his father, but Sam had been so young when his father died, he never knew if that was true.

The aurora shifted suddenly, grew more vivid. Its bright green reminded him of a place that couldn’t be more different than where he was now — his grandparents’ farm in Louisiana, lush and overgrown in late summer. It’d been years since he’d been South — the last time was when his grandmother passed, right after his first tour overseas. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the sun’s heat on his skin, covered though he was in layers of winter gear.

Sam let himself go back there. The trip hadn’t been entirely pleasant: Grannie had been pretty out of it for a while, rambling about seeing Papa in the yard, even though he’d been dead for years at that point. There was only one moment, during the two weeks that Sam was there, when he was sure that she was aware of him — she’d grasped his hand tightly, looked into his eyes, and smiled.

“You have a gift, Samuel,” she said in a rasp. “Don’t you dare waste it.”

“I won’t,” Sam replied, because what else could he really say at that point?

She stared at him a minute longer, then a haze seemed to pass in front of her eyes, and she exclaimed, “Paul! Where’s that beautiful Darlene you’ve been dating? You better bring her to see me.”

“I’m right here,” Sam’s mother said, and she gave Sam an apologetic look as he left the room.

That was the last time he saw Grannie alive; she died that night in her sleep, leaving Sam to wonder about her final words to him. To this day, he wasn’t sure what gift she’d been talking about.

Riley, when he told him, said it definitely wasn’t his Denzel impression. “Asshole,” Sam called him, and — it was weird, but even now Sam could see Riley’s grin, feel the warmth in his chest that came whenever he made Riley laugh.  

“Maybe you’ve got some competition, Ray,” Sam murmured with a smile, opening his eyes to find the stars exactly where he’d left them. “Not the only ghost following me around.”

Then, from behind him, came a voice. “Sam?”

Sam felt his body jerk in surprise, his heart leaping in his chest and cold air zapping his lungs as he gasped and whirled around to find Ben rounding the corner of the shed.

“Oh,” said Sam, forcing his breathing to slow down. “It’s you.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, raising his hands like he was surrendering. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

Sam waved him off. His startle response was high to begin with, and it got especially bad when he was zoned out. Not to mention that he’d thought— well, it didn’t matter whose voice he’d thought he’d heard, Ben was here now.  

“What’s up?” he asked, hoping he sounded normal. “What are you doing out here?”

Ben was watching the sky with a troubled expression. “The atmosphere indoors,” he said hesitantly. “It’s become somewhat unpleasant.”

“Oh,” Sam said again, with a slight wince. Steve and Bucky had been on the verge of an argument when he stepped outside, meaning that Sam had left Ben in a very awkward position. “Sorry about that. How bad is it? Do I need to referee?”

“No,” Ben replied, though he didn’t sound sure of himself. “Unless— they won’t hurt each other, will they?”

“No,” Sam reassured him, shaking his head. “They’re just stubborn.”

Ben chuckled suddenly, the laugh appearing in a puff of white air in front of him. Sam waited, but Ben didn’t say anything further.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asked finally.

“I was just thinking of Ray,” Ben answered, after another pause. “He could be very intense sometimes, too.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes,” Ben answered with a nod. “When he was working a case, he’d get this look in his eyes, this focus. He found me rather annoying when we first met, said I was interrupting his rhythm. Perhaps he was just used to working on his own, I don’t know. But it took us a while to... _sync up,_ as he put it.”

Sam had to grin at the phrase, at how unfamiliar it sounded in Ben’s voice. Somewhere, Sam thought suddenly, Ray was probably grinning about this, too.

“In any case,” Ben concluded, “I know a little of what it’s like to be constantly arguing with a partner.”

“They do annoy the hell out of each other sometimes, that’s for sure,” Sam agreed. “And me.”

“But they love each other, too,” Ben argued, with a wistful look in Sam’s direction. “And you.”

Sam nodded. “I’m lucky,” he said, and his stomach gave a guilty squirm. He needed to tell them his secret. “I should get back in there,” he decided, turning away.

But Ben stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Actually, Sam, I— I wanted to speak with you, if you don’t mind?”

Sam hesitated. “Um,” he said. “Okay.”

“I was just wondering how _you_ felt about me being your guide,” Ben said.

Sam took his time in answering. He thought again of the secrets he was carrying, the way he was setting himself apart from Steve and Bucky, the way that the three of them were setting themselves apart from Ben. What would happen when the truth came out? And it was too much to expect that the truth _wouldn’t_ come out. Their mission was leading them right to the place where Ray died; whether they liked it or not, Ray — and Ben — were tangled up in their mission.

Their mission, which would not succeed without help.

“We need a guide,” Sam said finally, practically. “And you’re the only person up here that we know we can trust.”

Ben nodded. Sam knew he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He drew a deep breath, and spoke cautiously.

“But I will admit that I’m worried about you coming along,” he said. “It won’t be easy, and I don’t just mean that there may be bad guys with guns.”

Ben cocked his head to the side. “Then what _do_ you mean?”

Sam exhaled through his nose and looked to the stars again for inspiration. “My wingman, Riley,” he said, the familiar words still aching in him after all this time, “he died in a fall, too.”

“Oh,” Ben breathed. “I’m sorry.”

Sam felt his mouth twist into something like a quick smile. “Thanks,” he replied, completely automatic. “But I never got the chance to go back to where he fell, and part of me is glad for that. Going to the McKinnon Pass, seeing the place where Ray—”

“I know it won’t be easy,” Ben interrupted. Sam glanced over in surprise to see that Ben’s jaw was set and his shoulders squared; Sam was suddenly reminded of Steve. “But it’s important. People go missing around here all too often, and if HYDRA’s involved, we have to stop them.”

“Yes,” said Sam simply. “We do.”

“So, you don’t mind if I join you for the next leg of your journey?” Ben asked.

There were so many answers he could give to that, but Sam settled on the truth — or, as close to the truth as he could get. “No. I don’t mind, as long as you’re prepared for the difficulties we’ll be facing.”

Ben assessed him in the weird, dancing light of the aurora, and he nodded. “Fair enough.”

Silence fell between them, and Sam again considered heading inside. But something told him to wait, to take advantage of the one-on-one time with Ben. He wasn’t sure when he’d get another opportunity to ask what he needed to ask, and, if there was a chance that Ben knew anything about HYDRA’s involvement in Ray’s death, Sam (and Steve and Bucky) needed to know that now, before they set off.

“In town today, I ran into the village elder you mentioned, Dr. Yumoni,” he began, somewhat cautiously.

Ben turned his head sharply in surprise. “Really? I wonder what she was doing down here.”

“She didn’t say,” Sam replied. “But we got to talking, and she mentioned her granddaughter, Tanaraq. How you and Ray were trying to find her.”

Ben’s shoulders slumped. “Ray more so than I,” he corrected Sam gently. “He was nothing if not tenacious.”

“Dr. Yumoni said the Mounties shut you down?” Sam prompted.

Ben’s expression soured as he nodded. “We often worked cases together, and my superiors were never terribly happy about that, except that we got results. Tanaraq’s case gave them an excuse, I suppose.”

“An excuse to do what?” Sam asked.

“To punish me,” Ben answered. He looked up, his eyes on the glowing horizon. “When we refused to give up, I was suspended on the grounds that I’d had inappropriate contact with a civilian regarding the details of the case.” He smiled wryly. “I suppose they weren’t wrong.”

“Still,” said Sam. “Sounds like backhanded discrimination if you ask me.”

“Very possibly,” Ben sighed. “Our... unconventional relationship turned a few heads, to be sure. Ray was never bothered by it, and he used to—”

He broke off suddenly, cleared his throat. Sam could hear Ben’s pain as if he’d shouted — could almost feel it, like a hole in the centre of his chest — so he reached out, placing a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

“Anyway,” Ben went on after a moment, steadier. “Ray didn’t give up, even after I’d been suspended, and he got a lead.”

“How?” Sam asked. He couldn’t help but think of Bucky’s theory, that HYDRA had lured Ray out to where they wanted him.

But if Ben knew anything about the larger conspiracy to cause Ray’s death, he wasn’t showing it. He smiled at Sam again with sad eyes.

“I never asked,” he replied simply. “Ray told me he got something, said he had a hunch, and that was enough for me. I trusted his instinct.”

“Instinct?” Sam repeated. The word tasted strange on his tongue, but he couldn’t think why.

“That’s what he called it,” Ben explained. “Others would maybe say intuition, or perhaps just good detective skills,” he added with a chuckle. “In any case, I’d been working with him long enough to trust his abilities, so off we went.”

“To the McKinnon Pass?”

Ben nodded. “I was relieved that that’s where Ray’s clue led us. As I said, we climbed there often.”

“He enjoyed that, did he?” Sam asked. He was starting to think that it was shame he’d only met Ray in ghost form; it sounded like they would get along well.

“Very much so, yes,” said Ben. “He was used to the fast, dangerous life of a Chicago detective, and I think mountaineering scratched that itch somewhat.” Ben dropped his gaze all at once. “Maybe that’s what really happened,” he went on in a low voice. “We got— _I_ got careless.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam said, automatic. The words had about the impact that he’d anticipated — a grim smile, a slight shake of the head — but he went on anyway. “I know that’s not what your heart says, but it’s true.”

“I know,” Ben sighed. “And I thank you for saying so.”

“Any time,” Sam replied. He drew a deep breath and gestured at the house behind him. “Guess I should get back in there, huh?”

“I suppose,” said Ben. He shot Sam a wry look. “Would you think less of me if I lingered in the dog kennel a little longer?”

Sam chuckled. “Nope. Can’t blame you for that. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Ben nodded, and, with a crunch of snow, he set off in the direction of the kennel. Sam took one last look at the sky — now a pale green that shimmered into pink under the stars — and went back to the cabin.

He braced himself somewhat before opening the door, half-expecting to be met with the sound of raised voices. But the cabin was quiet when he entered, quiet enough that he wondered for a moment if Steve and Bucky had left by the other door. But as he was taking off his coat, he heard a sound from the kitchen, soft and quickly stifled. A low rumble followed — Bucky’s voice, Sam thought, though he couldn’t make out the words.

He finished removing his outerwear and walked through the empty living room into the kitchen, where he could now hear both of them talking in the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, but the gap revealed nothing but a strip of darkness.

“I know you’re worried,” Steve said. He sounded strangely out of breath, and his speech was interrupted with pauses. “And I am too. But— I trust him, and—”

“Shh, I know that,” Bucky murmured. “It’s okay, just—”

His voice faded out, replaced by quiet rustling and the sounds of movement. Sam crept a little closer to the bathroom door, straining to listen.  

“He’s the only one— who can get us there,” Steve went on, “and if there’s something he knows—”

“Shh, it’s fine,” Bucky cut him off. “You won, okay? He’s going with us.”

“But—”

If they were discussing this, he really ought to be involved, too, Sam decided. “Guys?” he called softly. All movement on the other side of the door abruptly stopped. “Can I come in?”

A socked foot snaked around the edge of the door and nudged it open a little wider. Sam took that as an invitation and pushed it the rest of the way. The light from the kitchen swept in from left to right, showing Sam one corner of the tub, the toilet, the edge of the vanity that was opposite the door, and then— Bucky, pressing Steve against the wall. He had one hand on Steve’s shoulder, holding him tight, and the other one — the metal one, Sam noticed — had disappeared somewhere in the loose fabric of their open pants. In the mirror over the sink, Sam could see the shadowy sides of their faces, and his own startled reflection between them.

“What are you two doing?” he asked, though by now it was pretty obvious.

Steve blinked in Sam’s direction, looking dazed. “Arguing,” he said vaguely.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “I can see that,” he replied, keeping his voice as neutral as he could manage. “And you really think now is the best time?”

Steve had the good graces to look embarrassed, but Bucky turned and gave Sam a challenging, dangerous smirk. Without taking his eyes off Sam, he did something with his unseen hand that made Steve’s eyes flutter closed. Against his will, Sam’s heart rate picked up, his mouth went dry.

“So, what you’re saying is we only got a few minutes,” Bucky said, his voice husky and low, which was not helping Sam to stay clear-headed. “You gonna stand there and watch, or are you coming in?”

Sam swallowed hard. Heat was gathering in his groin, but his body wasn’t a runaway freight train. He could stop it, and he should stop it. Sex was a really bad idea right now; there was so much on the line, and so many secrets between them. He ought to stop, to settle them down and _talk_ to them, tell them everything he was hiding. He knew that. And yet—

Bucky moved again, pressing Steve further into the wall with a sloppy kiss. Steve moaned softly and rocked his hips to meet Bucky, even as his hand reached out in Sam’s direction.

—and yet, sex was easier than talking.

He moved fully into the room and pushed the door with his foot until he heard it click shut. They were in total darkness now, but that didn’t seem to bother Steve and Bucky. Their hands landed on him, and it felt for an overwhelming moment like there were too many — one rubbed his crotch through his pants while another cupped his ass; one shoved his shirt up while another worked down his zipper. And then someone kissed him — none of them were clean-shaven right now, so the brush of facial hair was no clue, but Sam guessed it was Steve; he kissed with no urgency, even though he’d seemed desperate a moment ago.

They didn’t speak, the dark room filled instead with the sound of their harsh breath, the rustle of their clothing, the movement of their lips. Sam groped blindly until his fingers found the wet tip of a cock — with foreskin, that was Bucky. Bucky reacted by trailing his smooth metal fingers up Sam’s wrist to find the slit of his boxers and reach inside. Distracted by the touch, Sam shifted his grasp, smeared the wetness of Bucky’s pre-come over his palm and started jacking Bucky off the way Sam knew he liked it — slow and hard. His injured shoulder protested the movement somewhat, but he suppressed it. He heard Bucky inhale, there was a tug in the region of Sam’s pants, and Sam felt a sudden breeze of cool air against his cock. Bucky’s metal hand warmed him up a second later, and Sam’s head swam as his dick hardened.

This, he thought through the haze as Steve held him and kissed him patiently, thoroughly — this was something he _could_ give them, a secret he _could_ share. The physicality, the intimacy and closeness — so close in the small space that he was already sweating — it was a stand-in for the emotional gap he wasn’t yet ready to bridge. So he was going to make it count.

He reached down with his right hand, found Steve’s erection straining up to meet him, too. Steve wrapped his fingers around Sam’s, and they moved in tandem, even as Steve continued to kiss him, even as Bucky’s right hand snuck behind him, squeezing and kneading his ass. Sam’s rhythm faltered, his cock pulsed against the unyielding metal of Bucky’s hand, and Steve pulled his face away with a gasp. His breath gusted against the right side of Sam’s neck while his fist pumped furiously between them. His mouth came back, ragged and messy, so Sam bit his bottom lip, just enough to give him the brush of pain he needed, and a second later, Sam felt him come. The hot fluid leaked out from between their joined fingers, making Sam’s balls throb in sympathy, but Sam didn’t hesitate, letting Steve go to get both hands on Bucky, who reacted to the wet touch with an uncharacteristic jolt of surprise.

Steve’s mouth disappeared; Sam heard the wet sound of him kissing Bucky. He couldn’t see them, which was maddening, but he felt Bucky’s grip loosen with the distraction, which was almost as good. He focused on getting Bucky off, using one hand to massage the head of his cock while his other hand worked the shaft.

He heard Bucky make a sound, so he kept it up, but then Bucky’s lips were on his, and it was Sam’s turn to be surprised — a soft thud of knees hitting the floor, a warm wet tongue laving around Bucky’s fingers. He felt his mouth slacken, his hands fumble, but Bucky came anyway, all over him, and Sam— Sam couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except let the feeling wash over him — _so much, so good_ — and it peaked all at once, the pleasure driving everything else away.

He stood there, just breathing, while Steve got back to his feet and snuggled up close to his side. Sam put an arm around his waist, and Steve made a happy post-sex sound, which made Sam frown. He thought for a second about why, and then it all came back, driving him out of the afterglow. He realized what he’d just done, remembered the lies that the sex was supposed to make up for, and he felt disgusted.

Shame prickled through him, starting with the places he was touching Steve. It was stickier than his hands and stomach, the crawling unclean feeling of knowing the wrongness of what he’d just done. And Steve leaning close, nuzzling his neck and kissing his earlobe, it was too much. He pulled away with enough force that he smacked his back against the door. He scrabbled behind him until he got it open, letting some light and air into the rank room.

“Sam,” Steve said. It was almost a question.

In front of him, the tap splashed on. Bucky moved to the sink, washed his hands. It seemed like an excellent idea — excuse — so Sam said, “I need a shower,” and fastened his pants enough that he could go to the living room and get the things he needed.

When he returned, Steve and Bucky had left the bathroom, and the weight of their combined gaze fell on him. He gave them a quick smile but didn’t meet their eyes as he fetched a towel from the closet beside the bathroom.

“Sam,” Steve said again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam lied. When was he going to stop lying to them? “Just need a shower is all.”

“Okay,” said Steve, stepping back. Bucky narrowed his eyes at Sam, but didn’t speak.

Sam went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He switched on the fan, but it couldn’t drown out the sound of Bucky saying something. It didn’t sound like English or Russian — German, maybe? — and Steve answering him in kind.

 _Great,_ Sam thought, sinking back against the door with a heavy sigh. That was just what they needed — more secrets.

After a second, he managed to move, to turn on the water, but he didn’t step into the tub just yet, instead staring into the blank eyes that faced him in the mirror. He felt exhausted and weak. Dirty. User and used up.

His reflection blurred. He forced himself to turn away, to get into the shower and at least go through the motions of getting clean. Even if it didn’t work, it was something.


	9. Ancient History

In spite of everything, Sam did feel a little better by the time he shut the water off. He climbed out of the tub and dried himself, realizing as he did that his stomach was growling. He’d only eaten half his dinner, he remembered, and with the sex, no wonder he felt so low— he was crashing.

He stepped into the clean underwear he’d brought in from their pack, and moved to put on his pants back on. The front of the fabric crinkled strangely, and he’d pulled the folded piece of paper out of the pocket before he remembered — it was the page of the list that had his name on it.

Was it only this afternoon that Natasha had sent him this? Sam took a second to marvel at how little time had passed, and yet how much had changed. Twenty-four hours ago, he was laughing in the kitchen with the others. And twenty-four hours before that, he was huddled up in a tent with his partners, keeping the cold at bay. No secrets between them, no lies.

They should never have come here, Sam thought sharply. Should never have gotten involved with Ben, should never have learned the implications of Ray’s death. Stanley Raymond Kowalski should have stayed a name on a piece of paper and nothing more.

The page shook in his hands. He had a strong, sudden urge to destroy it, to rip it into a hundred illegible scraps and pretend it didn’t exist, that it had never existed. That he didn’t know what he now knew.

But the anger passed, his hands steadied. Like a quick summer storm, Sam felt it recede, and he folded the list page again and pushed it back into his pocket. He pulled his shirt on over his head and glanced at himself in the mirror once to make sure he looked normal before he shut off the bathroom fan and opened the door.

He found Ben, Steve, and Bucky standing around the table in front of a large photo album. Ben looked over and smiled when Sam stepped into the kitchen, but the others didn’t react at all.

“Ah, Sam,” said Ben, obviously oblivious to the cold shoulder Sam was getting. “I was just showing everyone Ray’s collection of memorabilia.”

“Memorabilia?” Sam repeated, a little curious despite the situation.

“Indeed,” Ben said. “While I was out with the dogs I remembered that Ray kept a box in the shed. It took me some time to find it, but I thought it might interest you. These things belonged to Ray’s father, take a look.”

“Oh, wow,” said Sam, coming a little closer but still giving Steve and Bucky a wide berth. From here, he could see that the album wasn’t actually full of photographs; it was cards. Baseball cards, by the looks of it. Yellowed with age but well-cared-for.

“Huh. Dizzy Dean,” said Steve softly, touching one card through the plastic. “I think you had this one, didn’t you, Buck?”

Bucky frowned down at the card. “Not that one,” he said after a moment. “I think my older brother had that one.”

“Right, right,” Steve murmured, and he seemed to get lost in the cards again.

Sam lingered a moment longer, then turned away when it became clear that neither of them were going to acknowledge him. He could tell they were hurt and confused — and rightfully so, to a certain extent — but he missed their closeness.

He swallowed the pang in his chest and moved around them instead, heading to the fridge to see if— yes, there it was. Sam’s half-finished bowl of stew from dinner.

“Let me help you,” said Ben, following him. He grabbed a small pot from the cupboard and set it on the stove, holding it steady while Sam poured the stew into it. “I’m waiting for them to skip ahead a few pages,” he told Sam quietly, in the tone of letting someone in on a joke. “I didn’t think they’d be so taken with old baseball cards.”

Sam smiled, a little sadly, at the reminder of a passion that he shared with Steve. To say they were fans of the game was an understatement, and they’d made plans to catch at least one live game in the spring. But now Sam was wondering if that was likely. Spring — and happier times — seemed very far away right now.

 _And there’s the crashing again,_ Sam told himself. He needed to up his blood sugar now or he’d soon be a weeping mess in the corner. He focused on heating up the stew instead of worrying.

“Well, would you look at that,” Steve said from behind him. There was a rustle of plastic that accompanied his words. “Ted Williams’s rookie card. That’s gotta be worth a fortune.”

“Possibly,” Ben acknowledged, leaving Sam at the stove to re-join Bucky and Steve. “But I could never part with it. He was Damian’s— Ray’s father’s favorite player as a boy.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder to see Steve nod somberly, as Bucky pointed at another card. “I remember that one,” he said. “I think it was one of the last ones they printed before they stopped production for the war.”

“I forgot about that,” Steve commented. “Becca was so disappointed.”

“She was,” Bucky agreed. Sam chanced another look as he spooned the steaming food back into his bowl, and he saw Bucky’s smile bloom, soft around the edges like the old cards they were examining. “I think she was sadder about that news than she was about me getting drafted.”

Steve scoffed. “I highly doubt that, Bucky.”

Sam turned, picked up his spoon and leaned against the kitchen counter to eat. As he did, Steve’s eyes, crinkled with laughter and nostalgia, grazed across Sam’s. The look was over too soon for Sam to interpret — Sam blinked and Steve’s focus was on the album again. Sam watched him for another second or two to see if he would look up again, but when he didn’t, Sam went back to his stew. 

“Oh my god,” he heard Steve say a moment later, and he looked up to see Steve raise a hand to his forehead as Bucky started to laugh. Sam edged to one side to see around him, and smiled at what had made Steve so embarrassed: the page was full of Captain America trading cards.

“Look at that,” Bucky chuckled. “Is that a complete set?”

“Yes,” Ben affirmed, the corners of his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. “Mint condition, too. Damian told me he used his entire allowance every week to get them all.”

“Of course he did,” Bucky replied, still grinning. “With no more baseball cards, what else was he gonna collect?”

“Wait a minute,” said Steve suddenly. He was pointing at a card, and Ben was covering his mouth like he was hiding a smile. “Is that one _signed?”_

“I was waiting for you to notice,” said Ben with something like a giggle.

“When did I—?” Steve began.

“Chicago, 1942, I believe,” Ben replied.

“Wow,” Steve murmured.

Sam resisted the desire to squeeze himself alongside Bucky as Bucky crowded close and peered at the card in question. “To Damian,” he read out loud. “Stay in school. Your friend, Captain America.” He snorted. “Says the guy who dropped out after eighth grade.”

Steve’s face was turning scarlet. “I went back eventually,” he protested feebly.

“Well, the story goes that Damian wanted to quit,” Ben explained, “to help his father in the machine shop. He couldn’t have been older than seven when you signed this for him. Damian talked about it until the day he died.”

“Wow,” Steve said again, shaking his head.

“Do you,” Ben began somewhat delicately. “Do you remember him, Steve?”

Steve shook his head again, his eyes still on the card. Sam could tell it was paining him, not being able to remember, and he longed to cross the room, to touch him.

“I met so many people on tour,” Steve said, like it was an apology. “So many families. Kids, babies.” He shuddered a little. “Too many babies.”

Bucky chuckled again and patted Steve’s shoulder. “There, there,” he said jokingly.

“Sam, do you want to see?” Ben asked.

All at once, the energy in the room shifted. Steve seemed to tense up, and Bucky drew in a breath. Ben’s eyes flicked between him and the others uncertainly as he waited for Sam’s answer.

“Sure,” Sam said finally. He braced himself and crossed the room, getting as close to Bucky and Steve as he could without crowding them. Was it only half an hour ago that the three of them were in the bathroom? Now he could hardly stand to be this close— like they were strangers. It was an awful feeling, but there was no way out but through.

“Wow,” he echoed Steve, looking at the old pictures of Steve in his ridiculous USO get-up, posing with a shield that was obviously too flimsy to be anything but a stage prop.

“This one came out after Azzano,” said Steve, putting his finger on a card in the lower right corner of the page. His uniform in this picture was different — closer to something an actual soldier might wear — but his shield was the same. The real one was too valuable, Sam guessed, to be used so frivolously.

“They didn’t make many of these,” Steve went on, sounding almost impressed. “Just a few with me and— oh,” he said as he turned the page. “There they are.”

 _Captain America and his Howling Commandos,_ the cards on this page read, but only one was a group shot. The rest were individual pictures of all the team members that Sam and every other American kid had studied in history class: Dum Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Jim Morita, James Montgomery Falsworth, Jacques Dernier, and, of course—

“Look at you,” Steve said, gleefully pointing out Bucky’s card. “So young.”

He wasn’t wrong, Sam thought, struggling, despite their weird dynamic, to hold back a laugh when he saw Bucky’s card. Bucky looked less like a soldier and more like a boy playing dress-up with his father’s rifle.

“So stupid,” Bucky muttered. “The way they made me pose. Who in their right mind holds a gun like that?”

“And then there’s the Instagrammable duck face,” Sam chimed in without really meaning to. 

Bucky looked up sharply like Sam had startled him, and Sam almost moved away before he realized that Bucky’s glare was playful. Sam felt a grin spread across his face, and, for a second, everything was normal.

Then Ben asked what a duck face was, and if Bucky would perhaps be willing to demonstrate, and Bucky transferred his glower to him.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he grumbled. He wagged a finger between Ben and Steve. “Trolls, both of you.”

Steve laughed and shoved at Ben’s shoulder. “Well, it was a good try.”

Sam couldn’t help laughing with them, and in the midst of it, his eyes met Steve’s again. A second later, Steve grabbed Sam’s hand and held on tight.

Relief coursed through Sam at the touch, and, even though he knew things were still far from okay, for those few minutes that they laughed and razzed Bucky together, it was enough.

* * *

A little while later, when it came time to retire for the night, Sam felt the distance start to creep between them again. They headed to the living room, and only once he got to the couch did he realize that he and Bucky were on their own; Steve had fallen behind, he was lingering with Ben by the foot of the stairs. Ben was saying something too quiet for Sam to hear, and Steve was watching him, listening intently.

“Hey,” he heard Steve say, and he put his hand on Ben’s arm. Sam looked away at once, concerned that jealousy might overcome him again. But there was no sign of it, and Sam forced himself not to strain his ears to listen. 

Bucky, however, sent Sam a somewhat guarded look as he turned his back to Steve and Ben, and Sam nodded his understanding. That seemed to be the extent of their communication since they’d left the bathroom, and Sam got the impression that Bucky was as uncomfortable with that as he was, but still, neither of them managed to speak. They moved around each other, Bucky gathering up fresh clothes and his shower supplies, and Sam finding his copy of _Neuromancer._ He didn’t remember where he’d left off last night — was that only last night? — so he sat on the couch and flipped through the pages, looking for something familiar.

“Goodnight,” Ben said softly, and Sam glanced up to see him letting go of Steve’s hand reluctantly, his fingers trailing away.

“Goodnight,” Steve echoed. Sam dropped his head, but in his peripheral vision he watched Steve watch Ben walk upstairs. He heard Ben’s footsteps in the loft, accompanied by the click of his dog’s claws — Sam had lost track of the dog in the last few hours, he must have been sleeping up there for a while — and finally Steve moved, coming into the living room.

“Shower?” he asked Bucky, who nodded. “Mind if I join you in a few minutes?”

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t look in Sam’s direction, just turned and went back in the direction of the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” Sam heard himself mumble a moment after the bathroom door closed, and Steve pulled his eyes away and sighed. He crossed the room and sank onto the sofa beside him.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” Steve asked directly. “You’re not yourself.”

Sam winced at his bluntness. “I know.”

“I’m worried about you,” Steve said softly. “We both are.”

“I know,” Sam repeated.

As the silence lengthened between them, Steve frowned, exhaled through his nose. “But you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong,” he concluded.

Sam couldn’t answer.

“Does it have something to do with that dream you had last night?” Steve pressed him.

“I—” Sam began, but then his throat closed up again. “I can’t, Steve, I— I’m sorry.”

It was a cop-out, and Sam knew it was, but it was also the closest he’d come to saying anything, and a stinging mix of relief and fear washed over him as Steve took his hand.

“Okay,” Steve murmured. “I get it.”

 _You can’t,_ Sam thought, but he nodded anyway.

“But when you can, when you’re ready, just know that I’m here for you, okay?” Steve said. Sam nodded again, and Steve kissed his hand. “Now I have to go talk some sense into Bucky,” he added, more to himself, as he got up off the couch and started going through their pack for his own supplies.

“He’ll be all right,” Sam said. His voice was rough, but it was almost a relief, after all those silences and half-sentences, that he could get any words out at all.

Steve looked over in surprise, and he held Sam’s gaze for what felt like a really long time. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?” he said finally.

Sam blinked in confusion. “Do what?”

“Be the optimist,” Steve replied, and his expression tightened. “You don’t have to lift everybody up, or keep a smile on your face all the time because you’re worried that we can’t handle it when you frown.”

“I know that,” Sam tried to say, but Steve cut him off, raising his voice a little as he gathered steam.

“You always do that, Sam, and you don’t have to. Whatever this is, whatever you’re not telling me, I can handle it,” he concluded. “And, frankly, it pisses me off if you think I can’t.”

“I don’t— It’s not that, Steve,” Sam protested, even though he knew that was another lie. Or a half-truth, if nothing else. “There’s just— a lot in my brain right now,” he managed.

“I know that,” Steve said, more softly. “But I also know it’s not like you to bottle stuff up, either.”

“Just,” Sam said, closing his eyes for a second to focus. Why couldn’t he speak? Why couldn’t he tell Steve what he needed to know?

“I just need some time,” he finished, and he looked again into Steve’s eyes, asking him silently to understand. “I promise, I’ll tell you when I can. Okay?”

Steve sighed again and picked up his things, but he stopped on his way out of the room to rest his hand on Sam’s cheek, raise his chin to kiss him, slow and gentle, like Sam was something fragile that had to be handled with care. It warmed Sam from the inside, that level of tenderness, and he kissed Steve back, trying to tell him so much without words.

“I love you,” Steve reminded him when they’d parted.

“You too,” Sam managed to respond, and Steve held onto him for another minute before letting him go and following Bucky’s path through the kitchen.

Sam watched him go and waited for the sound of him greeting Bucky — again, not in English — and closing the bathroom door before he let himself react to the conversation  he’d just had. He breathed out an enormous breath and let his head hang. His brain felt too full, like it used to after a day of back-to-back crisis clients. His stomach churned because of the guilty conscience he had again failed to clear, and his shoulder ached and itched under his shirt.

At least, he thought after a moment of just breathing, there was no sign of the haunting that had been fucking up his life for four days now. He could wonder about that, about why Ray’s presence appeared and disappeared so quickly, but he had so few working brain cells at the moment, and none of them felt up to the task of examining the mysteries of the afterlife.

When he finally felt he could move again, he stood and undressed. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and forget about the troubles that this day had brought him. But the paper he had in his pocket crinkled again, and, after pausing to listen that the shower was still running, he pulled it out and unfolded it one more time.

The list wasn’t arranged alphabetically by name, so it took him a second to find it, and in that second, he hoped against hope that it wasn’t there, that he’d misread it earlier.

But no. His heart sank, his stomach clenched. There— EM-16.

His name. His birthday. His address. Followed by another designation that obviously meant something to HYDRA: _NA-040414-X._

But the shock had lessened somewhat now; he took a breath, tried to see the list more as an objective document. Mission intel, and nothing more. Deserving of a calm, rational look. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, focused on the letters and numbers on the page before him.

Each entry, he noticed, had a code before the name like his. This page contained CV-13 to CV-18, and EM-01 to EM-19. Sam tried to remember some of the codes he’d seen on some of the other pages, but he couldn’t think of them offhand. He glanced around the room, but the rest of the list was nowhere in sight. Where had Bucky put it? He couldn’t remember. 

After each person’s — victim’s? — address was a string of numbers and letters like the one after Sam’s. Except— they were different. Above him, EM-15, Jared Dunbar, was assigned _TB-051207-T._ Lois Fang, EM-17, had _TB-100413-T._ In fact, every entry on the page except Sam’s name had a code that began with _TB_ and ended with _T._

He looked up from the page, thinking, forcing his tired brain to consider the possibilities. What could it mean, that he’d been assigned a different code? And what did the code mean for these other unfortunate targets?

The shower shut off before he could find any answers. Sam hastily folded up the list again and scanned the room like a teenager with a joint, searching for a hiding place. Sam’s eyes landed on a stack of books on the lower shelf of the coffee table. One in the middle caught his eye — _Canadian Impressionism_ — but he quickly dismissed it, given Steve’s love of flicking through art books. The one above it, though, _The Canadians in WW2,_ that was more promising. Neither Steve nor Bucky liked looking at pictures from their war, and Sam couldn’t blame them for that. He grabbed the book and tucked the list between the pages before putting it back just as neat as he’d found it.

And not a moment too soon, apparently, as Steve’s voice came into the kitchen. “I tried that a few times,” he was saying. “Not convinced it worked.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Bucky answered, and, God, it was a relief to hear his voice. “Sam would probably know, though.”

Steve hummed in agreement as the two of them crossed the threshold into the living room. Sam was busying himself with their pack, so he didn’t notice Bucky approaching him until it was too late, until he heard a cybernetic whir, and he found himself wrapped up in Bucky’s arms.

“What the—?” Sam started to say, but Bucky tightened his hold and sighed in Sam’s grasp. Sam let his eyes close in relief. The touch was enough, and Sam just let himself enjoy it for a moment.

When they parted, he sent a grateful look at Steve, who nodded in acknowledgement. Sam could see in his eyes that all was not forgiven, that their conversation was far from over, but the weird distance between them had faded somewhat. Despite everything, they still had each other’s backs, and they were going to get through this, the way they’d gotten through everything else so far.

“Sam would probably know what?” Sam asked after a moment, clearing his throat to help him sound a little more normal.

“About lucid dreaming,” Steve replied. “You ever try it? Do you know if it works?”

Sam wasn’t fooled: this wasn’t a matter of academics. “No, and maybe,” he answered, careful to match Steve’s casual tone. “It’s like any other technique. Some people have success with it, and some people don’t. It was never my specialty,” he concluded, “so I never taught it to my clients, but I knew other counselors who did.”

He picked up _Neuromancer_ again and settled on the floor with his back against the couch. He rested his feet on the pillow he’d used last night — getting comfy and close to the sleeping bag, but letting Steve and Bucky know that he was still up for talking if they wanted to.

But neither of them said anything more about lucid dreaming. While Steve rooted through their pack for something, Bucky sat beside Sam and gestured at the book in his hand. “What are you reading?”

Sam told him, and, as he’d predicted, the story was right up Bucky’s alley. His eyes lit up as Sam described the plot and setting as much as he could without spoiling it. Meanwhile, Steve, clearly bored, sighed out his nose and sat down on the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked him.

“Nothing,” Steve replied, still frowning. “Just looking for something to read.”

Sam nodded, but he froze a second later when Steve’s eyes went to the books under the coffee table. Bucky asked Sam another question, but Sam didn’t answer. His palms were sweating, his heart rate climbing as Steve picked up the WW2 book, examined the cover—

—and set it aside, opting for _Canadian Impressionism_ instead.

“Sorry, what?” Sam asked Bucky, hoping against hope that Bucky couldn’t hear his jackrabbit heart slowing down.

Bucky repeated his question, but Steve opened the book before Sam could answer. He stared down at the page before him— not reading, not blinking.

“What?” Sam asked, dreading the answer for some unfathomable reason.

“It’s hollow,” Steve answered him, sounding kind of hollow himself. He put his hand into the book gap. “It’s—”

“Whoa,” Bucky exclaimed, as Steve pulled out a handgun.

“Why would Ben have this?” Steve asked in a low voice.

“It’s not his,” said Sam. “It’s Ray’s.”

He glanced over to find Bucky sending him a quizzical look that was, by now, familiar. “How do you know that?”

Sam blinked. How _did_ he know that? He hadn’t meant to say anything; the words had seemed to move through him from somewhere else. He watched as Steve turned the weapon over in his hands, examining it from every angle, opening the magazine to see if it was loaded — it was —and thought about what he might say to get himself out of this.

“It’s a Glock,” he answered at length, going for the obvious. “Standard semiautomatic, 9 millimeter. The kind of gun that an American cop would carry,” he added, when Steve still looked puzzled.

“Oh,” said Steve, his expression clearing.

Bucky looked somewhat mollified, but he frowned again when Steve put the gun away and replaced the book. “You’re just gonna leave it there?”

“It’s not my business,” Steve replied simply, though he didn’t look at either of them as he said it.

Bucky made a disapproving sound in his throat, but he didn’t argue.

“Let’s just get to bed,” Steve went on. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Steve flicked off the lamp and moved toward the sleeping bag. The three of them shuffled around in the dark until Sam was in the middle. He rolled over on his right side, and Bucky was there; behind him, there was Steve, warm and solid with his arm holding Sam tight like a seatbelt.

Scratchy lips brushed his forehead. “Goodnight, birdie,” said Bucky.

A soft beard nuzzled his neck. “Goodnight, Sam,” said Steve.

“Goodnight,” Sam echoed. The fatigue of the day was starting to catch up to him, and he closed his eyes against the darkness, letting the roller coaster of the day slow to a stop.

Things were not okay. The intel he’d received had only given him more questions, more secrets. He was still lying to the men who loved him, and they knew it and loved him anyway. He’d met a ghost, learned his story. A story that he couldn’t tell to anyone in this house.

Still, he thought, as he shifted on his pillow, it was time to sleep. His body needed rest more than his mind needed to hit another dead end.

 _Just let this day be over,_ he thought, and, a few minutes later, it was.


End file.
